


full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

by vandenburg



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, F/M, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character, clarification: vex is trans and this is explicitly confirmed but it is not the focus At All, eventually i'll write them the fic they deserve, icb i didnt add that tag the first time around, vaxmore is unfortunately background for this one lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-09-29 08:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandenburg/pseuds/vandenburg
Summary: Determined to show her father her worth, Vex'ahlia volunteers to travel to Whitestone to make a deal with the reclusive Lord de Rolo for the powerful whitestone, which the Syngorn Council believes will help them withstand the Chroma Conclave, which has recently attacked Emon. Lord de Rolo is apprehensive at first, but makes her an offer: he will help her secure the future of Syngorn, in exchange for her hand in marriage.





	1. knock

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes before we begin this!
> 
> 1) vex is trans, but this is not a story about her being trans. it is just a feature of who she is. i am not trans, which is why i have done my best to make her transness explicit but not a plot focus.
> 
> 2) i've done minimal plotting for this story, so i'm aware of where it gets a little weak, but i honestly dont have the energy in my life to worry too much about that. fanfiction is not something any of us are paid to write, after all.

The sun has not yet reached its zenith when Vex’ahlia Vessar feels snow seep into her shoes. Her nose is bright pink despite her tan skin that normally subdues such coloration, and she can assume that the tips of her slightly-pointed ears are reddening as well. Breath comes out of her mouth like little clouds, clouds she wishes were up on the sky, as that would at least insulate the heat in the ground. (Though she may not have many kind thoughts to spare her father, Syldor, she does quietly appreciate the tutoring she received when she was younger, which allows her to think of these things.)

Having grown up under desert-like conditions, in the small town of Byroden, Vex is unused to the cold. Syngorn, where she now resides, is north of Byroden, but its sparse snow during the coldest winters pales in comparison to Whitestone’s blankets of white. Perhaps it would have astounded and amazed Vex, if she hadn’t already walked in the cold mess for hours.

One would think Syldor had a carriage to spare for one of his children, but the one horse he did supply stumbled into a pothole in the ground a few days back, and Vex has no way of contacting him or someone dealing in horses as of right now. Luckily, she is only another day’s worth of trekking from the castle. That doesn’t mean she won’t add a strongly-worded remark or two to the letter she will send once she reaches the castle, though.

To seek out Lord de Rolo was her idea. The council of Syngorn, of which Syldor Vessar is a member, has for weeks observed the war between the city state of Emon and the invasion forces known as the Conclave, and readied themselves for war in case of Emon’s fall. The Conclave is under the rule of a dragon known as Raishan, green and terrible, and seemingly much smarter and calculated than any other dragon known to man, and as such it is only a matter of time before Emon bows and the Conclave is upon the rest of Exandria.

Syldor, frustrated and tired, told his family about the council plans one night at dinner, particularly bemoaning the fact that a certain stone that would enable them utilize strong magical defenses did not exist outside of one particular location – that is, the location it was named for: Whitestone. Vex, puzzled with his conundrum, suggested he simply speak with the Lord of Whitestone and arrange a business deal. This was somehow funny enough to make Syldor laugh at her.

“Child,” he said, which he knew Vex hated beyond words, “the Lord that resides there has long since lost his mind. We have already attempted to reach out to him, but he will not interact with the outside world. People say he only speaks with the ghosts of the family members he has killed.”

It was the condescending tone that angered her, and within the minute she agreed to take on the task herself: to go to Whitestone, speak with Lord de Rolo, and secure a business deal for the priceless whitestone. The piece of her mind that never grew wiser past her rebellious teenage years screamed out in victory. This would be her chance to show her father that she was as capable as any full-blooded elf – that she was  _ better _ , in fact, for she would make a deal with a Lord whom no one else could do business with!

That was the idea.

Soaked by snow from below and sweat from her own body, Vex’ahlia is not so sure that any Lord will take her seriously. It would all be better if Vax’ildan were here next to her, though he would probably complain far worse than she. Still, it is strange to move around in the world without her shadow.

Most likely to sabotage her, Syldor insisted she take on the task alone, and that Vax’ildan be used for spying opportunities in Emon itself. Vex bristled at the thought of Vax so close to danger, but Vax lives his life halfway to martyrdom and was surprisingly happy to take on such a task. Of course, he bemoaned their separation later that night when they retreated to their shared room, but not enough to call off his own mission to join her on hers. He managed to convince her that while Syldor’s motives were questionable, and that it certainly was cold-hearted of him to send his own son into a war that raged elsewhere, it  _ would _ be much more convincing if they each go out on their own and return victorious.

Regardless of how true that might be, Vex still wishes he were here to complain along with her. Even a snowball to the face would be preferable to being without him. The twins have never been separated like this before. When they lived with their mother, Elaina, in Byroden, they would occasionally pursue their own interests during the day – pick-pocketing in the shadows for Vax and hunting for Vex – but they would always,  _ always _ be together at the end of the day. And when they were moved to Syngorn, they were together even more often still. In fact, Vex has come to feel incomplete without her brother at her side.

Despite her Vax-less condition, Vex reaches the city of Whitestone as darkness falls. The snow brightens the night wherever it is hit by light that drizzles from Whitestone windows. She decides it is better to seek respite for tonight rather than trek up the mountain, on which the Castle Whitestone stands, and show up at Lord de Rolo’s door in the middle of the night and soaking wet. 

As she looks for a suitable inn, she spares a few glances in the castle’s direction. Architecture was never her favorite subject, but even she can see that the building is old – probably two or three centuries old, if not more. Despite its age, it looks clean and intimidating, if a little cold and standoffish. She immediately shakes her head at herself for imbuing a building with so much spirit that the building can suddenly feel  _ apprehension _ . The reality is that she is being colored by what little she has heard of the de Rolo family, and particularly of the Lord that currently resides in the castle.

Every nobleman above the age of twenty-five and every commoner with an interest in gossip know about the deaths of Lord Frederick de Rolo and his wife, Lady Johanna, as well as the deaths of six out of their seven children. Vex cannot remember the names of the children anymore, as the murders occurred more than five years ago, when she was not more than twenty-three years old and still newly presented to the upper society. One thing is certain: the remaining name would be Percival de Rolo, the current Lord of Whitestone.

Just like Vex’ahlia’s father expressed, though not in so many words, the general opinion is that Percival de Rolo killed his family members. The motive remains shadowed. Some stipulate that the late Lord de Rolo threatened to disinherit Percival for his antisocial nature and that Percival reacted by killing all that would have known about this scandal. Others suggest that Percival wanted to rule and felt cheated by being the third-born child. Less people still whisper that Percival was in love with one of his sisters, or engaged in something equally abhorrent, and that the parents found out.

Vex’ahlia likes to believe that she will grant every person the benefit of the doubt. However, even she finds it difficult to remain entirely unmoved by all of these rumors. After all, they must come from somewhere, mustn’t they? From what she has heard, Lord de Rolo is quite an unusual man. Like her father also said, Lord de Rolo keeps to himself and seems entirely unconcerned with any connection to the outside world. Nobody has seen the young lord, aside from physicians and men making deliveries of things such as vegetables and cheese, for five years. Either he must be mad, or he must be the loneliest man in existence. Vex’ahlia hopes for the latter. In that case, she will be able to charm him even more successfully than she normally charms people, because any man isolated from the company of women would be eager to stay on her good side.

That is her hope: to find a man so starved of company that he will give her anything she wants once she looks at him like he is a man, not a monster.

The inn is in a poor condition, and both the owner, a gnomish man with a scar down his forehead and one glass eye, and the customers are eager to express their disgust for their Lord as soon as they realize that Vex’ahlia is an outsider. Due to the Lord’s reclusiveness, the city of Whitestone has been cut off from any possible trade partnerships, and the locals must live only on local produce, which is rarely bountiful due to the many squabbles among the farmers that do not get settled by the Lord. Criminals run rampant, too. In some ways, it is better to live in the wilderness than it is to live in Whitestone.

Vex’ahlia asks for paper and a quill, with which she curates a letter for her father. She tells him, briefly, of her journey, and laments the loss of her horse. Then she lies and says that Lord de Rolo has offered her to stay as his guest as they discuss the possibility of an agreement. Finally, she asks about the wellbeing of her brother, and signs.

In the tavern, she finds a young man eager for a job, and asks him to deliver the letter to her father, and direct any responses to the castle. When he looks at her with questions in his eyes, she quickly doubles his payment, and immediately those questions are gone.

Sleep comes to her uneasily, but eventually her hours of hiking catch up with her, and she slips into a dreamless and restful night.

The next morning, she promises the innkeeper to take his concerns to the Lord, which he laughs scornfully at, but she privately holds onto that promise. Being a Lord is a privilege; the least Lord de Rolo could do would be to take care of his people.

Castle Whitestone looks striking in the early morning light. No snow drizzles from the skies this morning, though the sky remains overcast. The building emanates a cool, white light, like a Light spell or a beacon. It is incredibly imposing, for all that its architecture is simple and rough. Perhaps that is  _ why _ it is humbling; an ornate building with countless spires would be less impressive, because it was not built for battle. This one clearly was.

It takes her the better part of two hours to climb the city streets and approach the castle walls. Along the way, she sees only a handful of people, all of them disgruntled and shaggy-looking. Nobody stops her or even seems to wonder why a young woman wearing traditionally elvish clothing, and of decent quality at that, would be wandering the Whitestone streets. Surprisingly, there are not even guards posted in front of the castle gates. Apparently, the young Lord’s self-imposed isolation is so severe that it has taken a toll on his security measures.

The outer gate leads her into a courtyard, which is entirely abandoned as well. The cobblestones would be charming, were it not for the eerie atmosphere of ghosts haunting every crevice of this building. Vex’ahlia draws her coat closer and adjusts her collar so it covers her neck, but still feels a chill travel lazily down her spine as she crosses the courtyard and listens to her lonely footsteps.

There is no other way of announcing her presence than to reach out and knock on the main door when it presents itself to her. It is of oak, and its dark brown cuts a nice contrast into the white walls. Its height is at least one-and-a-half times as great as Vex’ahlia’s, who, because of her elven heritage, isn’t the world’s tallest person, but is still one of a decent size.

She waits a full minute. Then she knocks again, this time seven, heavy knocks. Another minute passes. Her nerves give way to annoyance, and she looks up to make sure the Lord isn’t watching her from a window and laughing at her, but no one but the building itself seems to be observing her lack of patience.

On a whim, she reaches out and pulls at the handle, and, to her surprise, the door opens. As it creaks open, Vex stares at it open-mouthed. One would think an isolated Lord like Lord de Rolo would make sure that every door and window, especially the main door, is locked. Strange. A little unsettling, too. Has the Lord heard of her arrival? Is he awaiting her with a drawn blade, mad like the night he killed his family?

Vex’ahlia shivers and pulls her cloak closer, but refuses to let this chance pass her by. With a last look around the courtyard, which remains abandoned as ever, she steps through the door and into the castle.

Inside, the air is stale but as cold as outside. Her breath still shows like little puffs of clouds. If it weren’t for her darkvision, she wouldn’t have been able to see most of the hall that greets her solemnly, as no torches burns along the walls. A dusty but impressive chandelier hangs overhead, its crystals dimmed by dirt. Vex’ahlia suspects that the castle hasn’t been properly lit for years. Perhaps not since the death of the Lord’s family.

Straight ahead of her, a set of twin staircases split and reconvene at the next floor. They are covered in a plush carpet that must have been brightly colored once, but now looks as though it is choking on dirt. To either of her sides is a closed door, and neither is framed in a halo that would have revealed the use of light behind them.

What now? Vex worries her bottom lip between her teeth and wonders if she would wake up old ghosts, if she were to call on the Lord. But as she waits and listens, she realizes that she can figure out where he is: the unmistakable clank of metal against metal is perhaps subdued, but it is present, and her sharp ears catch the sound and its direction. After a second of hesitation, Vex casts  _ Pass Without a Trace _ on herself, and follows the sound through the hall to a hidden door on her right, which she opens - luckily, without a creak. The Lord must use this door quite frequently.

Her leather shoes may not be suitable for trekking through the snow, but they are perfect for a huntress sneaking up on her prey. Vex knows that she is currently less noticeable than a shadow and finds a thrill in this fact, a thrill she hasn’t felt since her brother and she were allowed to hunt outside of Syngorn. The clanging grows louder and louder as she descends down an unlit staircase. For a moment, she wonders if perhaps the Lord is something more sinister than the simple human she has been led to believe that he is; if he is a human, surely he would need the stairway to be lit?

At last, she reaches a door. It is different from the others, as it is made of metal - and it does, in fact, bear the telltale halo of a door lit from within. The halo is golden, which suggests a large fire: a forge. Vex holds her breath and tries the handle.

Unlocked.

As she gently pushes the door open, the room beyond is revealed to her. True enough, a forge is built into one side of the room. Its heat greets her before its light does, and she instantly feels sweat pearl at her hairline and under her many layers of winter clothing. The rest of the room looks like a mixture of a smithy and the workshop of an inventor. A large anvil stands not far from the forge, and various smith’s tools are laid out or hung up in its vicinity. A bucket large enough for Vex to bathe in is present, too. An impressive desk has been pulled up to the far wall, where sketches and notes have been adhered to the stones, while the rest of the notes are scattered on and around the desk. Pieces of metal and wood and stone are strewn about here-and-there, with some looking like the beginnings of a mechanism, and others looking like a magpie has collected them for its hoard.

In the middle of the room, half-naked, bent over the anvil and away from her, is Lord de Rolo.

He looks as though someone has drained all of the color from his body. Though Vex’ahlia has met many people much paler than she, particularly since leaving Byroden for the more northern Syngorn, she has never seen someone so bone-like white. It would be kind to say that the sun must be a stranger to him. As his muscles move beneath his ivory skin, a series of scars on his back are lit up by the fire, and shine almost iridescent-like, as though they are pearls, sewn into his flesh.

Even his hair, as little of it as she can see from this angle, is the color of the snow blanketing Whitestone.

She wonders if she should speak or retreat and knock on the door, when her strategizing is interrupted by the baritone of an aristocratic voice: “I am working on something. Please leave.”

The clanging of metal continues, and he doesn’t turn around to face her. Vex frowns, disappointed in herself for being discovered. The spell was supposed to have rendered her nigh-invisible.

Regardless, she has come too far to be discouraged from such a simple rejection. Stepping into the room and closing the door behind her, she says, with her finest highbrow voice: “I apologize for the intrusion, my Lord, but my mission is of the utmost importance. My name is Vex’ahlia Vessar-”

“He sent you, didn’t he?”

The stranger in front of her has stalled. Between them is only the crackling of flames. Vex’ahlia, puzzled as she is by this strange individual, and wary of what kind of temper he might have, begins removing her gloves and cloak regardless; the forge is simply too hot.

“He did,” she admits.

Muscles tense under ivory sheet, and at once, the young Lord turns to face her. His chest is similarly coated in scars. Hairs as white as those on his head are strewn across whatever flesh isn’t marred by trauma. On his nose rests a pair of unusual spectacles, gold-rimmed with two extra circles of glass attached, one on each side. Behind the glasses, narrowed blue eyes catch Vex’ahlia by surprise; apparently, a part of him still contains color. 

Those eyes rake over her in a way that makes her feel cold despite the real temperature in the room, and there is a stubborn twist to his jaw that urges her to run. “Whatever sort of spirit you are, I will make no deal with you,” he warns, voice hard and eyes harder. “If he wants to speak with me, he can do so himself.”

Spirit? Vex frowns and cocks her head to the side, her own eyes narrowing to take in the face of this stranger. His chin is a forest of uneven stubble, this a salt-and-pepper mixture of white and dark brown, if not black. Dark lines run along his forehead, his eyes, his nose. Sweat makes his skin glisten, but it nevertheless looks tired and dry. Old. Like the jaundiced papers of an old tome. She searches for his hands and finds them shaking. He is trembling. He is afraid.

Immediately, Vex’ahlia knows what to do. She has years of experience with wounded animals. There is not one she cannot charm into trusting her. Adopting a non-threatening body language is key: she gathers her feet from their defensive stance, relaxes her chin and her shoulders, and tries for a gentle smile. Her hands reach out, palms up.

“My father  _ tried  _ speaking with you, my Lord,” she reminds him calmly, “but you ignored his letters, and he is needed on the Council, so they sent me.”

Anger battles with confusion on the Lord’s face as he continues to stare at her. “Orthax is your  _ father _ ?” His tone is so incredulous that Vex’ahlia  _ immediately _ must know who Orthax is, but she can tell that asking too many questions will result in her removal from the estate.

“ _ Syldor Vessar _ is my father,” she corrects him, as much as she hates that it is the truth.

Confusion now wins, and Lord de Rolo’s face is twisted so thoroughly that Vex’ahlia must stop herself from laughing. “Is he some other demon?”

Her amusement only grows; it is impossible for her to strangle a smile. “Not in the traditional sense, I’m afraid.”

“I am confused.”

This simple admission finally coaxes a shrill giggle out of Vex. She is surprised to see those hard eyes soften for a moment, though Lord de Rolo’s body language is still overwhelmingly hostile. “I’m afraid I sometimes have that effect on people,” she jokes and sends him a mischievous smile, which only seems to perplex him further. “Allow me to repeat myself: I am Vex’ahlia Vessar, daughter of Syldor Vessar, member of the Council of Syngorn. I come here to discuss a possible business arrangement between you, my Lord, and the free city of Syngorn, in the face of the Conclave attack upon Emon.”

Lord de Rolo seems to soak in her every word, and although a frown appears that only grows deeper, it seems that she has finally managed to establish a sort of communication that the strange Lord can understand. His talk of demons is unsettling, but she honestly expected worse after listening to the citizens of Whitestone.

“The Council of Syngorn wants to buy whitestone to improve their magical defenses against the dragon Raishan and her army,” the Lord mumbles, though his voice is so trained that it is very easy to hear and understand, and ducks his head to look down at some unknown foe encased in the ground. “Yes. Yes, I read those letters.”

Fuck. Vex runs a tongue along her lips, which have become chapped from the cold outside followed by the extreme heat inside. There had been a small hope in her that Lord de Rolo had not looked at the letters at all, and therefore would comply as soon as he understood the severity of the situation.

“Then,” she begins as she slowly steps closer to him and brings her satchel down to her side, “you must know that we are willing to pay you very handsomely for your cooperation.” With that, she sets the satchel on the ground, a little harder than necessary, so that the gold and platinum pieces inside clink against one another.

Lord de Rolo looks at the satchel with an expressionless face. “I have all the money I need.”

_ Strange, _ she wants to snap,  _ your people don’t seem to have the same _ . But she manages to contain herself. “We are prepared to make other deals if that is what you want, my Lord. Land, imports, ships, beasts, influence. Name your price.”

His face hardens once more and he looks at her to meet her eyes. “Whitestone and I are one. To sell a piece of it would be to sell a piece of my own soul. And my soul already belongs to someone else.”

 

***

 

Any man would have taken her for a fey spirit. Her traditionally elven clothing is of high quality and primarily dark blue with hints of white. Tan skin looks almost gilded in the light of the forge, the pearls of sweat along her hairline like a crown of golden drops. Across her back is an exquisite, if simple, longbow, and her hair is long, dark, and shines like a pool of oil down her shoulder.

Vex’ahlia is unquestionably beautiful, and her demanding presence speaks of royal blood, even if it does not technically run in her veins. It ought to, though.

“Whom does your soul belong to?” she asks softly, her deep voice lowered.

“If I tell you, I am afraid you will steal it away from the owner.”

That seems to delight her; she smiles again, and her hazel eyes are lit with mirth. “I wouldn’t promise not to. It might save my city.”

That, at least, he can sympathize with. “You are a brave woman, Lady Vessar, but my answer is final. I am not interested in making any deals. For the sake of etiquette, I will let you stay here until tomorrow as my guest, but that is all.”

To his surprise, she merely sighs and says, “Very well. Show me to my room. I would like a bath.”

After a moment of regret, Percy leaves his Bad News project in the workroom, intending on returning to it once he has shown Vex’ahlia to her room. He chooses the most direct route, which leads them past the library. As they walk past the open door, he notices Vex’ahlia stall and peer curiously through, as though trying to read every title in a brief glimpse. Her childlike interest invites him to look at the library with new eyes and rediscover its beauty, just as he once did every time he entered it as a young boy.

The books are arranged by topic and are stacked in bookcases as high as the ceiling allows them to go. Further into the room, unseen by them in this moment, is an old oak desk, but from here they can only see two armchairs, both worn and comfortable and not very stylish. One of them carries a mountain of books from the last time Percy lost himself in there.

“Not all rooms in the castle are available to guests,” he warns her, “but the library is. Feel free to have a look around once you’ve had your bath. Although, I should warn you: not all books are in Common.”

Vex’ahlia looks up at him (she must crane her neck backwards and tip her face) with a challenge in her eyes. “Oh? Are some in Undercommon, perhaps? Or Elvish? Draconic? Abyssal? Thieves’ Cant?”

Despite himself, Percy feels his cheeks grow hot. “Point taken, my Lady.”

She laughs and it is the sweetest melody he has heard in five years. As they continue their walk, she says, “Good. Although, you are aware that I am not a Lady, right?”

He nods, eyes now back on the stone walls of the castle. “I know that none of the members of the Syngorn Council bear a title. In your case, it seems that Fate has made a grave mistake. You would make an excellent noble.”

“Lord de Rolo, did you just pay me a compliment?”

His lips quirk in amusement. “Decidedly not.”

It takes them a few more minutes of walking before they have reached the east wing of the castle, which is reserved solely for guest rooms. Nobody has slept in those beds for five years. They are probably covered in a blanket of dust. Nevertheless, he shows her to the largest of the collection, one that has its own entrance into one of the bath chambers.

“You will need to collect your own water from the pump in the courtyard. There will be a bucket in the wash chamber; you can use that one. Once you are done, tip the bathtub and let the dirty water run into the drain, the hole, in the middle of the floor.”

“Thank you, my Lord; I am sure I will manage. I assume you will be in your workroom?”

“That is the intention, yes.”

“Mh. Then I suppose I know where to go if I need a show,” she says with laughter in her voice, eyes trailing to his chest, which he only now realizes is still naked. Somehow, her company has kept the chilly air at bay and not alerted him to his shirtless condition. Heat rises to his cheeks once more, like a pubescent boy looking at a pretty girl, and it is only worsened when she sends him a wink and a chuckle, and leaves him standing in the hallway while she retreats to the room.

Years of isolation have worn him down in ways he did not expect them to.

Shaking off the sudden disquiet that has come over him, Percy retreats back to his blazing hot workshop, where the half-finished weapon awaits him.

 

***

 

Once her bath is completed, Vex feels much better. Granted, it was a cold affair to get out of the bath, since she didn’t feel like taking the time to let the fireplace heat up the entire room, but the bath was refreshing all the same. Along with the extensive amount of coin in a satchel, she has her Bag of Holding, from which she retrieves a change of clothing. Despite Lord de Rolo’s half-naked existence for the time being, she imagines that he is used to a certain standard of dress, so she has packed her nicest tunic and a pair of leather breeches, which she knows hugs her ass  _ most favorably _ . A richly blue cloak with a white-and-silver trim completes the look.

As she dresses, she considers what she wants to ask Lord de Rolo. For, although she quickly agreed to stay and drop the topic of an arrangement, she is only biding her time until she can breach the topic again – this time with a better sales pitch.

First of all, she wants to ask about the unlocked doors. Have they been enough of a deterrent for poachers, or does he simply live with the occasional disappearance of his silverware? Is he perhaps unaware that the doors are unlocked? Are the doors magically enchanted so that only those without evil intent can enter them?

Second of all, she is intrigued about his forge. What is he building? Is he an inventor? A blacksmith? An artist?

The rest of her questions are too personal, but she turns them over and over in her head. What exactly happened to his family? Why does he isolate himself from the world? Does anybody truly own his soul?

Is he lonely, or is he mad?

Perhaps the best place to start looking for answers is the library. She finds it easily; the castle layout is twisting and winding as any castle layout is, but Vex’ahlia is a hunter and therefore familiar with retracing her steps and finding her way in an unknown environment. Her leather shoes are back on her feet, so she moves soundlessly, even as she can vaguely hear the methodical hammering of metal against metal once again.

Like before, the door to the library is open, and she enters the room without much ceremony. The windows inside are mostly covered, which is peculiar but perhaps not unexpected, given Lord de Rolo’s eccentric and isolated nature. Vex decides not to interfere with his preferred interior design, and resigns herself to simply scrunching up her nose when the dust  teases it, and to relying on her heightened senses on account of her elven blood.

She decides to walk along the bookcases in a strategic and logical manner, scanning the spines with determination. Most are, in fact, in Common, but an impressive amount is also in Elvish. These mainly concern Elvish culture, language, and history, whereas the books in Common span a variety of subjects, though majorly history and science. Along the way, she encounters a handful in a language that she doesn’t understand. Its script is only vaguely familiar to her, in that it feels like something she might have seen before, but she cannot place it. Very interesting, considering how many languages she  _ does _ speak.

As she comes to a full circulation of the room, she realizes that she has overlooked a pile of books on top of one of the comfortable chairs in the front of the room. These, she picks up and rifles through very quickly, mainly looking for pictures to explain to her their contents. They contain scientific diagrams and not many of them.

In the middle of the pile, however, she finds something strange. It is a book much smaller than the rest, and it has been penned by a much more impatient hand than that of a cleric’s. Additionally, several sketches inside of it are made in graphite as opposed to ink, which means they are probably originals. The whole book is written in Common, so she, curious, picks a random page and reads:

_ would serve nicely for fortifications against the return of those cursed creatures, Universe save us all if they do. I have yet to find my father’s writings on the defence of Whitestone. I now suspect he may have given them to Julius shortly before the arrival of Sylas and Delilah. It is very possible that the latter might have retrieved these writings from Julius on the night of the attack, and still have them in their possession, in which case they would be of no use to me anyway. _

Even though it clicks in Vex’s mind that this must be the personal journal of Lord de Rolo once Whitestone is mentioned, she continues reading with a hunger only challenged by the actual hunger growing in her stomach. As the page trails off to detail ideas for a catapult system (at least, that is what Vex thinks they are), she loses interest, and skips a few pages ahead:

_ must employ silver. I must convince a cleric to imbue them with holy magic, if at all possible. Then I must cut out the cleric’s tongue for good measure. _

Vex chokes on her horror. Immediately, her mind is transported back to her father’s assurance that Lord de Rolo orchestrated the murders of his entire family. In conversation, he didn’t seem so bad. Odd, yes. Dangerous? No. Not truly. But this changes her mind so fundamentally that she nearly considers fleeing. A slab of stone is not worth her life - or even just her tongue.

The scholarly part of her, which, granted, isn’t the largest part of her anatomy, but is significant nonetheless, notes that both of these excerpts show examples of great paranoia: talk of defense and fortifications, possibly against the Conclave but perhaps also against these “Sylas and Delilah” people, and the removal of a cleric’s tongue merely for helping him bless an item… Lord de Rolo must be terrified of an attack on Whitestone or his person. Perhaps if she can promise him assistance, like Syngorian military, he will be more obliged to make a deal with her for the whitestone.

She considers what to do with the journal. Flipping through it, she sees more sketches, most of intricate devices and other such technical equipment, but there are a few of more organic motifs, such as the face of a beautiful woman and a small child in a frock caught by the wind. Vex’ahlia isn’t an artist herself but can appreciate that these sketches are quite beautiful. Nevertheless, her mind never leaves the thought of Lord de Rolo cutting out the tongue of some poor, innocent cleric.

Finally, Vex decides to place the journal back where she found it and not utter a word about it to Lord de Rolo. She assumes it is incredibly personal and that he would not react kindly to her having read in it, as much as she could perhaps use it as leverage over him. If he continues to refuse and becomes a threat to her safety, she can maybe look for blackmail material. But for now, she’d prefer not to suffer the wrath of a lord while hundreds of miles away from her home.

Her stomach guides her next actions: she wanders the castle in search of a kitchen, which she finds after half an hour of searching through strange, winding hallways. It is as though the castle is alive and playing with her. Of course, when she gets to the kitchen, there is no sign of any staff, though what smells like a thick stew simmers in a cauldron above the fire. It smells alright, but there is no telling when it has been made; while she was bathing? This morning? Last night? It must have been made by Lord de Rolo himself in any case.

Tentatively, she pours two bowls of it. During her years in Byroden, a stew like this would be an average meal. Ordinarily, it would be based on whatever creature Vex had caught in the forest that day, with the creature’s fur or hide being treated for blankets or clothing or the like, and potential horns carved into items like spoons or flutes; it was important to respect the life of the animal you killed by at least using every bit of its body.

This stew smells like potatoes and beef. Not the most exotic of flavors, but they will have to do.

As she approaches the workroom, no sound of a methodical hammer greets her, but she hears general rummaging and rustling. Determined to reign him in through charm, she knocks politely on the door and calls out, “Lord de Rolo!”

“One second!” he replies, and Vex deems it a success that he hasn’t outright rejected her.

Indeed, a few seconds later, Lord de Rolo opens the door, now clothed in a thin, white, buttoned-up shirt. Its cleanliness suggests that he has either put it on immediately before opening the door, or that his work has been restricted to messiless activities – whatever those might be; she still isn’t quite sure what it is that he does.

For all that he tries to look put together, Vex now realizes that he carries heavy bags beneath his eyes, and his face is verging on gaunt, not quite fleshy enough to soften his cheekbones and severe chin.

Pushing away the memory of the disturbing journal entries, Vex plasters on a winning smile. “I was hungry and thought you might be, too,” she holds up the bowls, “I hope you don’t mind.”

Lord de Rolo watches her as though she is an interesting specimen: his eyebrows are drawn to each other, his eyes are narrowed slightly, and his mouth is barely open. “No,” he says, shaking his head, seemingly to recover. Stepping to the side to allow her in, he adds, “Did you find the bath alright?”

She considers where the least filthy place to sit would be, and determines it must be the desk. One bowl is handed to the Lord, and then she marches to her chosen seat, which she tidies up a little to make sure she doesn’t accidentally spill stew on his master plans. “I did,” she says with as much cheer and confidence as she can muster, situated as she is, a lonesome figure in the depths of a castle with a man whose personal notes speak of cutting out the tongues of clerics. Gods damn it, that threat keeps coming back to her.

“Good,” he says awkwardly and trails after her, though he keeps a proper distance between them.

Once it’s clear that he doesn’t know how to make conversation, she decides to ask about something she should’ve really enquired about the second she saw him. And after reading his paranoid journal entry, this discrepancy seems even stranger. “Excuse me for speaking out of turn, my Lord,” she says, but she thinks he can hear from her light tone that she doesn’t necessarily concern herself with being polite; she just goes through the motions, “but I was wondering… your front door…”

Strangely, this elicits a snort from the strange man. “Not a worry, my Lady; I have already locked it after you.”

Vex frowns. “What?”

Lord de Rolo shrugs, but he’s wearing a cocky grin that is, frankly, ruining her mood. “While you were bathing, I made sure to lock the doors back up, seeing as how you had picked them. Their locks, that is.”

This accusation would’ve perhaps been completely valid if the doors hadn’t given in and he hadn’t shown up, because there is indeed a set of lockpicks in her pack and Vax has taught her well. However, since she hasn’t made use of them this time around, she’s allowed to be outraged. “I did not! Darling, those doors were unlocked when I tried them. You must’ve simply forgotten to lock them last time you went through,” she adds with a shrug. It does certainly explain the continuity error of a paranoid man leaving his front doors unlocked.

Lord de Rolo’s face pales. Which is quite impressive, considering his snowy complexion. His eyes widen in primal panic, like a hunted animal realizing it has been cornered. It is a rather extreme reaction, Vex thinks, especially when he bolts for the desk to scribble down a few notes and stick the piece of paper in his trouser pocket.

Cocking her head to the side as she watches him, she realizes that she has a perfect in. “Don’t worry, dear, the only intruder today was me. But if you are very concerned about your personal safety, I have an excellent deal for you.”

He looks up at her. This close, she can smell the fear coming off of him in waves. “What? What do you mean?”

“Syngorn has one of the most advanced series of protective measurements of Tal’Dorei,” she says, keeping her tone casual and conversational. “I’m sure I could convince my father to help you install some of these to your home, in exchange for the whitestone.”

His eyes harden visibly. They become like gray flints in his eye sockets. “No,” is all he says before he withdraws to the other end of the workroom.

Motherfuck. Shit.

“I’m not asking for all of it,” she protests, well-aware of how pathetic she sounds, grasping at straws like this, “or even a lot–”

“I said no,” he bites back, his voice so deep it resembles a growl. Suddenly, she’s the prey.

She swallows. “Please, Lord Percival, your family will still be in this castle–”

“My  _ family _ is  _ gone _ ,” he says, and Vex is amazed that pure acid isn’t dripping down his chin. His tone makes her shiver. “I must protect what I have left of them. You don’t understand.”

“But I might,” she bites back, and hops down from the desk to stand with a defiantally raised chin, even though standing actually reduces her height. “If you don’t make this deal with me, my brother will die.”

The truth of those words hit her retroactively. It nearly takes her breath away. Syldor has sent her brother to the frontlines. Vax might  _ already _ be dead. And if he isn’t, he will be soon enough, if Syngorn isn’t successful. And that hinges on the whitestone. Or, it might, but she doesn’t want to take chances on her brother’s life. And Devana and Velora’s. Her father can rot for all she cares.

Lord de Rolo is quiet and he doesn’t look at her or draw back into the light, but he doesn’t kick her out, either. Swallowing, she adds, “My brother’s name is Vax’ildan. He’s my best friend. And our father has sent him to Emon on an espionage mission.  _ Please _ . If you have any interest in keeping families together… give me the whitestone. I’ll give you anything you want in return.”

For a long while, all she can hear are the roaring flames in the forge. Then Lord de Rolo’s voice emerges from the smoke: “Your hand in marriage.”

Vex blinks. “ _ What? _ ”

Lord de Rolo finally looks up at her, but his face is serious, stern, severe. “Your hand in marriage for the whitestone.”

She can’t help it; she laughs. When he continues to look at her with severity, though, her laughter fades and her stomach drops. “You cannot be serious,” she says.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Whitestone needs a Lady. Someone to keep the castle, keep the city… I am  _ aware _ of how dour everything is. I would like to fix it.”

“And you think the answer is ‘marriage’, as opposed to, I don’t know, ‘hire a treasurer’?” 

“A Lady’s obligations are far more complicated than what any employee could manage,” he answers dryly. “She’s as important as the stones of the castle. Hence she is my price.”

She feels a little ill. “Why would I want to marry you?”

A bitter smile creeps onto his lips. They still stand a whole room apart. “I can offer you safety and money and a title. Upon your acceptance, I will send a shipment of whitestone to Syngorn, and once we are wed,  _ you _ will control shipments. If you should want your brother to join you here, you are welcome to invite him, and he will also be guarded by Whitestone. I can make sure that nothing happens to your brother ever again.”

As much as this idea is absolutely fucking insane, it  _ is _ a decent deal. However, is it all worth it to be stuck with a paranoid, possibly dangerous, man, who’s seemingly allergic to any air outside of his workroom?

Vex runs a hand down her face. What would Vax say? That one is easy:  _ no _ . A big, fat ‘I will dagger, dagger, dagger that man before you can even blink’.

But imagine Syldor’s surprise if she were to bag a deal with someone he thought impossible to reign in. He would  _ have _ to respect her. And Vax would be safe, for good. They wouldn’t even have to interact with Syldor anymore, just to eat and have a roof over their heads; they would be safe,  _ he _ would be safe. No more stealing and narrowly avoiding being hanged.

“You would also be able to hire anyone you wanted,” he adds patiently. “And I certainly don’t expect anything in the way of… romance. That you may find elsewhere.”

“This is insane,” she informs him as she begins pacing in front of the work desk.

“Only to someone not brought up as a noble,” he counters. He has become strangely peaceful now that they have engaged in this discussion. Was it really  _ his _ book she found? But whose else could it be? “Granted, I never thought I would be useful for an arranged marriage, as the third-born child, but it was always a possibility in my mind.”

“But why  _ me _ ?” she asks. “Certainly, you could do better than an ambassador’s bastard.”

“I could,” he agrees easily, which makes her scowl at him for implicitly calling her a bastard. “But you were the one who found me at the time when I realized I needed a Lady. Good breeding has nothing on good timing.”

For a moment, she just stares at him. He looks like a ghost as he stands there: hair, skin, and shirt all white. Only the reflection of forge fire in the spectacles on his nose suggests that he is physically present. “You are very strange.”

Surprisingly, that makes him smile. “I believe I’ve heard that accusation once or twice before.”

Vex isn’t sure what to say. From a certain standpoint, marrying him would be like signing away her life; she would have no freedom to choose what she wanted to do, but would be bound to a place further north than she has ever been, freezing and miserable. Potentially, her husband would be a murderer. Mass murderer, even, if one were to believe the rumors about him slaying his family. On the other hand, has she ever been free? First, she was bound by poverty, forced to hunt cruelly and steal and do whatever else necessary to survive, with no time or energy left to indulge in activities she enjoyed. Now, she is bound by Syldor’s money, forced to perform whatever duties he wills of her to hold onto the money that keeps her and her brother from living on the street. Would her life really be so different, bound to Whitestone? There is a very real chance that she will never be able to be truly free, so perhaps she should simply take the best deal out there.

The prettiest gilded cage.

Because it is gold-covered, it really is. Her childhood self would’ve swooned at the idea of becoming some lord’s wife and living in luxury with her brother by her side. Is marrying a dangerous man really such an awful price, considering that he doesn’t even want her in his bed? She is certainly trained enough in archery and other forms of combat to take care of him, if he should become a problem.

But this isn’t what she imagined for herself.

“How about this,” he begins, just as strangely amicable as before. It’s more off-putting than his creepy outbursts. “You can think on my offer overnight. Should you wish to decline it, I can have word sent to town, and you will be given a horse for your trip back to Syngorn. Should you wish to take my offer, I will set the shipment in motion and write Syldor Vessar a letter requesting the presence of one Vax’ildan. Does this seem fair to you?”

Vex nods slowly. “I... suppose. May I leave you for now, then?”

Lord de Rolo smiles wryly. “I suggest you take your bowl with you.”

Dazed, Vex’ahlia grabs her bowl, the contents of which she had completely forgotten, and heads back to her room. On the way, she passes the library. The sight of the pile of books makes her pause. She bites her bottom lip and glances down the hall, but there is no sight of Lord de Rolo, and now she can hear banging again. Feeling her heart in her throat, she tiptoes into the library to recover the journal, and then rushes to her room, book and broth in each hand.

 

***

 

That night, Percy doesn’t sleep. Insomnia isn’t a stranger to him, nor is it to this castle, so they each breathe together in perfect harmony. The rhythm of his hammer against the anvil is like the beating of a heart.

_ Vengeance _ , Orthax bellows from a corner of his mind.  _ Vengeance _ .

One moment, Percy’s hand is wrapped around the hammer and sweat is on his brow.

The next moment, he blinks at the tree tops of the Parchwood Forest, body sprawled across the forest floor. But not in rest.

Never in rest.


	2. entangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your feedback thus far! even though i write this story for my own sake, simply because i enjoy writing it, it's really nice to hear that you enjoy it, too. ('entangle' is normally a druid spell but d&d rules are just guidelines.)

That night, Vex’ahlia barely sleeps. Instead, she stays up into the wee hours of the morning, reading Lord de Rolo’s personal journal in the light of an oil lamp. It is an interesting read, to say the least. It is a fine mixture of the ramblings of a madman bent on revenge against the individuals only identified as Sylas and Delilah (though, other names feature as well, the most frequent being ‘Ripley’), and nonsensical sketches of various abandoned, unsuccessful, or uninteresting experiments. Many of these experiments are designed to cause pain. She really has found the den of a mad scientist.

It is not exactly consoling reading material when one is considering marrying this mad scientist, but one thing she can say with certainty: Lord de Rolo did not kill his family. Or, if he did, he has completely blocked out that memory and genuinely believes Delilah and Sylas are responsible. And that, at least, calms her.

If only there were some way of speaking with Vax about this. Of course, she knows exactly what he would say, but it still feels wrong to be considering anything so life-altering without him being here, promising to physically stab all of her problems until they go away. But there isn’t a way for them to speak. Perhaps if she were a more powerful magic user, but she only knows a few tricks lent to her by nature. There is nothing else for her to do than to make the decision by herself.

By the time she wakes up, the sun has crawled well past the horizon; she would guess it is around 10 or 11 in the morning. She dresses slowly, still struggling with coming to a decision. Perhaps it’s the haggler in her, unable to accept a deal without trying to make it as favorable as possible.

When she drags her sorry body to the kitchen, a new broth awaits her. She drinks it while listening to the sharp clangs from Lord de Rolo’s workroom. What can she ask for that would tip the balance in favor of accepting? At this point, she really does want to accept the deal, as insane as it is, but anxiety still vibrates in her bones. How can she make sure she gets the  _ absolute best  _ deal she can get?

Lord de Rolo looks a mess. The clanging, as it turns out, is not one of smithing, but largely from him repeatedly dropping metal items that he is using for the-gods-know-what. Even with his back turned to her, she notices the rumpled clothing and the greasy hair.

She clears her throat, which makes him spin around and point a set of metal tongs at her like they are a crossbow and she is a bear. “If you divorce me, you will give me the monetary value of half of your possessions,” she announces, crossing her arms.

Blue eyes shielded by smudged glass blink owlishly at her. He lowers the tongs. “That can… certainly be arranged.”

She nods once, sharply. “Excellent.”

He still stands there, awkwardly handling the tongs. “Is that a yes, then?”

“You really aren’t as smart as you make yourself out to be, are you, darling?”

“That’s fair,” he sighs, finally returning the tongs to the table behind him. “That is completely fair.” He sighs again, before clearing away his project and seemingly attempting to clean his space and himself a little. Belatedly, Vex sees the dark oil running down his fingers. “The family deity is Pelor, but I have no particular feelings about religion, so if there is a god or goddess you are inclined towards, I can call upon a cleric of theirs to perform the ceremony.”

Oh. Right. To be married, one actually needs to  _ get married _ . Suddenly, Vex mourns for the dress she will never get to wear. Syngorn tradition dictates red, but she has always been a fan of the Byroden blue, cool and beautiful like the ocean, with a headscarf so long it trails behind the dress like a train. As for the human tradition of rings… well, she quite likes the idea of something sparkly on her finger, but she supposes that wealth can grant her anything.

“I’m not affiliated with a specific god, either,” she says with a half shrug. “Pelor is as fine as any other, I suppose.”

Lord de Rolo nods and writes himself a note. “Of course, as is required by law, we will need three witnesses. Do you have anybody that you would wish to… invite?”

“Uh.” It isn’t like the ceremony will be anything other than awkward, but she supposes it will help to have a few friends in her court. The only problem is that she really only has one. “My brother.”

“Anyone else? Your parents, perhaps?”

She grimaces and shakes her head. “My mother died years ago, and my father… my father is not invited.”

Rather than nag her with platitudes or questions, he simply nods and makes another note. “I’m sure there will be two people in the congregation eager enough to earn a piece of silver.”

“Could I--” She stops herself, but Lord de Rolo looks up from his note-taking to stare at her above his glasses, eyebrows raised. “Never mind.”

He unfurls from his crumpled position and carefully takes a few steps in her direction. The work room is dark, save for the small fire that burns in the forge, the oil lamp on the table, and the glimpse of sunlight that falls through a small slit in the faraway corner of the room. In the darkness, it would be hard for a human to see any details, but Vex’ahlia is no human, so she sees the creases in Lord de Rolo’s clothing, the wrinkles and dark shadows under his eyes, the chapped quality of his lips… Is this really the man she has just agreed to marry? The closer he comes, the stronger the smell of smoke is.

“As much as I want to stress that I do not expect you to always be at my side,” he says, “I  _ am _ to be your husband, which means I am your ally, always. Whatever worries you, you may discuss with me.”

Despite his matter-of-fact tone and blank expression, those words are unexpectedly heartfelt. Rather than stress  _ her _ allegiance to  _ him _ , he positions them as equals - as a unit against the world. This may be madness, but at least his idea of marriage is compelling.

That doesn’t erase her embarrassment over the concern that had her raise her voice, though. But Vex doesn’t like to show anything other than confidence, so she shrugs a shoulder and says, as nonchalantly as possible, “Nothing important, I just wanted to know if I would have the time to find a proper dress for the occasion, that’s all.”

His expressionless mask falls away in favor of a surprised smile. “Of course. I  _ am _ aware of how much you will forego by entering into this agreement, so if there are any traditions you would wish to upkeep, do not hesitate to ask.”

Another weirdly earnest reply for their situation. “I can’t think of anything else,” she lies, but, truly, as much as she likes the idea of diamonds sparkling on her finger, it is not very appealing to her to wear a reminder of this odd arrangement, so there is nothing else she wants. Except, perhaps, answers. “I have another demand.”

Ghost-white eyebrows raise while his chapped lips broaden his careful smile. “Not sure you know how bartering works.”

Vex rolls her eyes at this ridiculous assumption. If Vax were here, he would prepare to sit back and enjoy the show. But she isn’t in the mood to take this jibe seriously. “Until I have said ‘I do’ and signed the papers, I’m in a perfectly advantageous position, darling,” she drawls, pouring as much seduction as she does sardonicism into her voice. Interestingly, his Adam’s apple bobs, though his eyes don’t stray from hers, and the eyebrows separate to leave one low and the other raised. “I want a conversation.”

There is a moment of awkward silence as he stares at her dumbly. “You… already have it?”

“No,” she says and almost wants to make a quip about how he seems to pride himself on his wits, yet he doesn’t pick up on her implication. “I want a  _ real _ conversation. If I am to run this castle, I want to know its history. If I’m to marry you, I want to know yours.”

Realization sets in like a sunset, slowly depriving his face of warmth and color and light. Left is only darkness. “You are to be the Lady of Whitestone, not my wife,” he tells her chin. “There is no necessity for you to know me.”

“The fuck there isn’t,” she snaps, quickly enough to surprise both him and herself. That is a Vax-sounding line. But since he isn’t here, she must do everything herself. “We may not be in love, but as far as I gather, you are Whitestone. Whitestone is  _ you _ . Without knowing you, I cannot know Whitestone, and without that knowledge, what good will I do?”

Silence drags on for several seconds. She feels cold despite her many layers. The frown on his forehead is like a canyon. The workroom like a coffin. Her heart beats furiously.

“Fine.” Time stops. He runs a hand across his face. Sighs. Dark smudges now run down his forehead. “Fine. You… argue well for your case. A conversation, then. But not now.”

“Tonight.”

It is not a question.

He looks at her as though she is a greedy dragon. “Fine. Tonight.”

***

 

Sometimes, there are glimpses. In the spark produced by his hammer against the metal, he sees the door opening in front of him. In the smoke trailing lazily up the chimney, he sees the blur of trees. One moment, he feels a surge of raw panic and frustration; the monster yelling out for a prey.

Hungry. He is so hungry.

 

***

 

Vex’ahlia can be patient when she wants to be. There is not much charm to Castle Whitestone. Most of it is barren, and where old furniture still stands, dust has gathered in every crevice and is spread across smooth surfaces like a blanket. The only place that looks to have been touched within this century is the library, but only the front of the room is resisting the reign of dust and decay. She does her best to ready the room for their conversation; she carries the coffee table from the living room to the library to put next to the two chairs, and liberates one of them from the stack of books Lord de Rolo has put on it. At the same time, she slips the Lord’s diary into the pile and places the whole lot against the wall.

Next, she wanders around the castle until she discovers the sleeping room of the maids who once kept the castle. There are three beds, each meant for three young girls, and various cleaning tools that have not been touched for five years. She shakes a cloth - and sneezes when years worth of dust fall into her face - and uses it to wipe down the chairs, the table, and the nearest bookshelves.

After lunch, she decides to remove the large curtains that cover every window in the grand library. Given the cost of glass, she is surprised anybody would want to cover it up, but perhaps it is not so surprising when Lord de Rolo seems to be allergic to sunlight or, indeed, any air outside of his workroom. Nevertheless, the curtains come down without much issue, and while dust whirls in the air as the fabric tumbles into Vex’ahlia’s arms, the change in decor dramatically changes the feeling of the room.

Although they have not discussed a specific time, Vex makes tea once the sun begins to set and the sky grows pink. She leaves the book she has been reading, on Whitestone native plants and animals, open on the coffee table, and sets a teapot and two cups with it. All she needs now is Lord de Rolo’s presence. Of course, while she has redecorated the library, she has seen not even a glimpse of him.

“I believe you’ve already breathed life into the castle, Lady Vex’ahlia.”

His voice startles her. Heart in throat, she swirls around to look at the door, in whose frame Lord de Rolo himself is standing, dressed in a clean, white shirt, impeccably ironed, dark blue trousers, and a long, elegant coat. There is not a speck of dust on him; not a dribble of sweat. For the first time she has been here, he looks like the proper Lord she expected. Even his hands, which are folded in front of him, are clean.

His blue-gray eyes have a faraway look in them, and he doesn’t look at her, but lingers on the teapot behind her.

“I just took down the curtains, darling,” she says before she can think too much about those eyes, and winks at him once he finally looks at her. “You sure like to keep it dark around here. Are you quite sure you aren’t a vampire?”

A grim smile appears on his lips. “I can assure you that if I were one, I would not tell unsuspecting maidens like yourself.”

“I wouldn’t say 'unsuspecting' - or 'maiden', for that matter.”

A delightful shade of pink creeps up his throat and colors first his cheeks and then the tips of his ears. It is amusing how such a simple innuendo can render him speechless when he otherwise seems quite capable of having a conversation. Not to mention how his aloof, arrogant nature cracks for just a moment and reveals a delicate, embarrassed side that she suspects not many people get to see.

“Ah.”

That breath of an answer catches her off-guard despite her careful examination of his face, and she accidentally lets out a snort, which in turn darkens the shade of red in his cheeks. “I hope that isn’t a problem for you, my Lord; that your wife-to-be won’t be ‘pure’.”

“Nothing about this place is,” he assures her, his voice dark. It sends a chill down her spine - but the dramatic quality of those words also amuse her in a strange way; he sounds like he is reading lines from a book. “And as I’ve already stated, your … love life is not mine to judge. It’s not part of the arrangement.”

“So that is a ‘no’ to all future invites to orgies?”

He splutters, and she keels over in laughter, hands on her knees and head light with the sudden lack of air. While she gasps for it, she hears him chuckle above her, and cranes back her neck to see him look down at her with sparks of mirth lighting up the sea in his eyes. Her teeth are bared in a grin in response.

“You are a devil,” he says, smiling all the while.

“A devil you made a deal with,” she replies as she straightens her back to return to her full height, which reaches his chest, “and it is time to honor that deal.”

Something dark flickers across his face, but he nods and steps past her to pour himself a cup of tea and claim one of the chairs. “I can’t promise you will like all of the answers.”

She shrugs a single shoulder and claims the other chair, tucking a leg up under herself. Although she has ignited the library fireplace, the warmth is weak against the Whitestone winter, so she is dressed in heavy wools and fur. They bunch up as she seats herself, but she doesn’t care much for propriety at this current moment.

“Why  _ do _ you keep your curtains down?”

Lord de Rolo blows on his tea and observes it carefully. “The sun bleaches the furniture, and there’s a draft from the windows. And I like the dark.”

She leans her head to the side. “Which parts of the castle do you even spend time in?”

“My workroom, obviously. My bedroom. This room. The kitchen, but only to do the necessary cooking.”

“Do you ever go outside?”

His lips flatten. “No.”

“Why not?”

He snorts, but not out of humor. There is a bitter grimace on his face when he tells his tea, “Socializing is surprisingly difficult when people suspect you of murdering your entire family.”

“But you didn’t?”

His eyes flicker up to catch hers. She raises her eyebrows. “No.”

“Then what happened?” But he doesn’t answer: he simply sips at his tea and grimaces when it burns his tongue. “Frankly, my Lord, I need to know in case the murderers come here. It is my right to keep myself safe, and to keep Whitestone safe against those who wish to harm it.”

As expected, her line about Whitestone softens the frown in his forehead. “Mh, yes, I think you may be right,” he mumbles, not without a tone of regret. “Fine. I shall tell you. I shall tell you the story of how Lord and Lady Briarwoods murdered my entire family.”

Vex pulls her cloak tighter around herself and brings her other leg up onto the chair so that she is now a little ball of wool, pressed into a dusty cushion. It is not enough to drive out the chill in her bones that settles when she sees the distant look in Lord de Rolo’s eyes. It looks as though he is staring at a ghost of a long lost mother.

“The Briarwoods contacted my father regarding a business plan; they wanted to build a bridge from their land in Wildemount to Whitestone, for commercial use. It was a quite ambitious project so my father was delighted. He invited them to visit and discuss business further. They arrived that month, and that night they turned our guards against us and, I presume, killed a lot of my family.”

His voice is emotionless. He is like a statue. Like an imitation of a person. Vex shivers into her chair.

“I was imprisoned and tortured for quite some time. I assume that’s how my family came to pass. My youngest sister, Cassandra, had escaped capture somehow, and she managed to break me free – but as we fled, she fell. Three arrows to her back. I ran, and for several months, the Briarwoods danced on the graves of my family. Until I returned.”

The grim smile that creeps onto his chapped lips is worse than the lack of emotion. His knuckles are white as they grip the teacup.

“I wasn’t strong enough to kill them, but I managed to wound them badly enough to scare them off. That is how I took back Whitestone. The Briarwoods are still out there, as is one of their accomplices: Dr. Anna Ripley.”

“Do you want revenge?” she whispers, enthralled by the dark energy of the room.

He stares her dead in the eye. “Yes.”

Vex feels cold.

Lord de Rolo looks back at his tea and blows softly at it before trying for another sip. He winces but doesn’t withdraw. Vex wants to hold a cup of hot tea too, but knows that the smell of it will only make her nauseous, as her innards have begun twisting uncomfortably.

“You said they… tortured you. What did they want to know?”

“Who knows,” he sighs across his tea. “I don’t much remember. It’s all a bit of a… blur.”

“But they must have wanted something,” she presses, automatically leaning in his direction. “Otherwise, they would have… they wouldn’t have… otherwise, it doesn’t make sense – my Lord.”

“Frankly, my dear, I would tell you if I knew. And as much as I appreciate the effort to be polite, I believe that now we are engaged to be married, I should give you the privilege of calling me by name, rather than title. As such, you may call me Percival.”

‘Percival’ is still quite a mouthful, but it at least signifies that he hasn’t quite regretted his proposal yet, which means that her interrogation has been acceptable thus far. Vex inclines her head in a small nod and says, “You may call me Vex.”

His lips spasm briefly. “Very well.”

“Tell me, Percival, would it not have been easier to find yourself a noblewoman? Someone actually  _ trained _ in the keeping of a castle?”

“Oh Gods no,” he says with a thick layer of disdain, which marks the most noble-like thing Vex has heard him say. “No noble can learn the amount of empathy needed to run the city.”

Vex is confused: “Did you not say, when we met, that I struck you as someone titled?”

A sardonic smile quirks Percival’s lip. He looks her straight in the eye. “Yes.”

Great. Vex runs a hand over her face. “You are a strange man, Percival.”

His eyes glint with mirth. “You have already told me this.”

“Apparently it begs repeating.”

A short laugh explodes out of him. “Fair, entirely fair.”

She leans her head to the side. “What about you? Do you not wish to know about the skeletons in  _ my _ closet?”

The smile he wears now is actually quite nice. It lights up his eyes. “I don’t mind if you have a whole room of them; it’s not my place to judge someone else’s personal demons when my own are … as disagreeable as they are.”

“That doesn’t mean mine are nice,” she points out, even though she is perfectly fine with keeping her secrets to herself. Something about his demeanor begs disagreement, though – a protest, a  _ challenge _ .

He looks her over. “Then I believe we are better suited for one another than initially expected.”

She struggles to smother a self-satisfied smirk. “Perhaps we are,” she drawls, lowering her voice a few notes, and is rewarded with a slight widening of his eyes. Childish glee causes her to grin, seductress role abandoned for now, though he still looks at her as though she is a siren and he a drowning sailor. “I don’t mean to insult you, but there is something else I thought about. When I first came, you thought someone had sent me… a demon? Did you mean Sylas?”

“Yes,” he answers, much too quickly; it gives away the lie. She narrows her eyes to make it clear that she doesn’t buy it, but he is at once distracted by something else: “Hold on, I never told you their names.”

Vex frowns. “Yes, you did. Briarwood.”

“Exactly, but you knew the Lord’s name is Sylas. I didn’t give you that name.”

Oh, mother _f_ _ uck _ .

In an instant, he is out of his seat. The teacup clatters to the floor. Something glistens in his hand. If it weren’t for its small size, she would’ve thought it a crossbow, but it fits neatly in his grip as he points it at her. All signs of friendship are gone from his now determined, tightly-pulled face. The device, presumably a weapon, clicks.

“Put that away, darling,” Vex says, proud of how even her voice is, but raises her hands and shows him her palms. “Give me a chance to explain.”

“As I see it, there are two options,” Percival says, his voice as expressionless as his face. “One: you are willingly in collusion with the Briarwoods, and a brilliant actress. Two: you have been manipulated without your own knowing, and you genuinely believe whatever story they brewed you. So. Which is it?”

“Neither! I-- I sort of… read your diary.”

“You did  _ what _ ? Why on Earth should I believe that?”

“You left it here, in the library, in a pile of other books, and, well, the best way to ensure a good deal is by knowing your business partner, and you weren’t exactly interested in chatting.”

He lowers his device slightly, and whirls his head around to look for the pile of books. That is when Vex’ahlia strikes: she only has a little bit of magic, but it is enough. An  _ Entangled  _ vine  sprouts five feet from the lord and immediately lashes out at him, catching him first around the ankle, and then snaking around his chest to pull his arms tightly against his body. Another vine catches his waist. Within three seconds, the lord is wrapped up in greenery with a sour look on his face, and the device is glinting at his feet. He opens his mouth to say something, but immediately a vine comes up to wrap around his mouth and stop him from uttering a word.

Wide-eyed, he watches her.

Vex breathes heavily and gathers her many layers of wool around her. “Sorry, dear, but I don’t allow men to draw their weapons at me.” Through the vines, she hears a snort. But she ignores him and heads for the pile of books, where she pulls out the item he has been searching for. “Especially when they don’t give me the benefit of the doubt,” she adds with raised eyebrows as she turns and presents the journal to him.

They aren’t familiar enough for her to be able to read the look in his eyes.

“I understand that they seem like all-powerful beings, and perhaps they are quite dangerous, but I have nothing to do with them. Understand?” He nods. “Good.” With a flick of her hand, she dispels the vines. They slink into the cracks of the floor. Percival breathes deeply, his head hanging like an shameful dog. In this moment, he looks… powerless, weak, like the child who lost his family. Vex suddenly feels awful for her rash reaction.

“You read everything in there?” His voice is hollow.

She throws the book in his direction, cringing when it falls to the floor next to him, as opposed to being caught by him. Fuck. Now she feels even worse. But he needs to understand that if they are to marry, she will not stand for his accusations, nor his quick draw of whatever the weapon is. It is better to establish these things now than it is to suddenly have that weapon thrust at her breast with no warning, years down the line.

This is an investment in her future. She will not be controlled.

“I did,” she agrees, and attempts to at least sound kind. “There were a lot of… disturbing phrases in it.”

Percival snorts. “I would be worried if you did not think so.”

“There were also a lot of drawings. Did you make that weapon?”

“I did. It’s my Pepperbox – my List.”

“You named it?” she asks, and steps closer to him.

He finally looks up at her. “Beautiful things deserve names.”

“And titles?”

“Yes.”

Every nerve end is stirring. They tremble. All Vex sees is blue-gray, like the sea frozen by winter’s cold breath.

Percival coughs and looks away, blue-gray waves immediately pulled away by his moon-white skin. “I believe I broke your cup. My apologies.”

Vex watches as roses climb his neck to settle in his cheeks, and smiles. “You technically own that cup, dear. Not me. We are not married yet.”

“Yes, I was wondering; when might we get that sorted?”

“‘Get that sorted’?” she echoes, snorting. “My, but you are a romantic. Patient, too.”

“Some of my many virtues,” he quips, and it actually makes her laugh.

“Indeed. Well, I would like my brother to be there. So, I suppose we wait until he has arrived – which may be a while due to his currently being in Emon.”

“Right. So you said. Well, I will… make arrangements. Would you like me to call for a seamstress for you?”

“No,” she says and she knows it is too quick of her, so she smiles to soften the word. “No, that’s alright. I would like to,” get out of here for a little bit, “visit the city. On my way here, I didn’t exactly stop to take in the sights, and now that I am to become its Lady, I should get to know it better.” Memories of her soggy socks make her flinch. “Uh, do you perhaps have some shoes I could borrow? Mine are not used to all of this snow.”

He squints at the ceiling. There is a peculiar look on his face, as though he is struggling to swallow a lemon. It reminds Vex of all of the other nobles she has met who part with copper pieces as though they are dear old friends. The most generous people she has ever known have been poor. “I suppose I… yes, I might have something you can use.” It sounds like he’s in pain. Vex feels like an inconvenience, but forces herself to remember that he has essentially made her sign away her life, so really, he should be giving her  _ heaps _ of shoes.

Abruptly, he says: “Follow me,” and is out of the door faster than Vex can blink. For a moment, she just stares at the empty doorway, but then she scrambles to catch up with him. Her height is close to ridiculous next to him (to be fair, he is taller than anyone else she has met thus far). She can hear Vax in the back of her mind, fondly calling her ‘Stubby’.

He leads her down halls. She hasn’t familiarized herself enough with the castle yet to know exactly where she is, so she simply follows, eyes wide, flickering, alert. But nothing catches her eye in the corridors, and eventually, he stops in front of an unassuming door.

As he stands there, his shoulders rise with tension. She suddenly realizes his reluctance has to do with something more than just monetary concerns. Unsure of how to feel, she approaches him from behind, until she is so close that she can smell smoke.

She hears his sharp intake of breath. Then he pushes open the door.

 

***

 

Vesper once warned her brother that if he ever stepped into her room without permission, she would let the twins into his workroom to wreak havoc. It was not a necessary threat; Percy was not interested in messing with the private lives of people who didn’t annoy him, and Vesper was always nice to him, just like she was nice to everyone. Nevertheless, he understood why she felt compelled to issue that warning, and simply accepted it with a nod.

Since then, he has entered her room twice: once, after chasing the Briarwoods from the castle, to asses the carnage, and a second ago, as he led his betrothed across the doorstep.

The room is a mess. Anything useful was taken by the Briarwoods, but Vesper owned loads of personal items and papers that would have meant nothing to them. Percy even found her journal. But unlike some, like the woman now curiously taking in the dusty room, Percy doesn’t read other people’s personal diaries – unless he has proper motivation for it. Vesper’s diary would be a collection of ghosts, and it would leave him with a bad taste in his mouth to violate her privacy, now that she cannot defend herself.

Her closet has been left similarly untouched. While he is not prepared for Vex’ahlia to borrow an extensive amount, he is fairly certain the two would have had a similar size foot, and Vesper owned a pair of study winter boots, which should suit her needs fine for the moment. Until she can buy a pair of her own.

“Was this the room of one of your siblings?” Vex’ahlia asks, startling Percy out of his thoughts. He looks to her where she is browsing Vesper’s bookcase, fingers running over a few Elvish titles.

Percy’s smile is small but it is there. Strangely, it is nice to speak Vesper into existence again. “My sister, my older sister,” he answers quietly, and joins her at the bookcase. “Vesper de Rolo.”

“Was she very smart?” Vex’ahlia wonders as her finger moves on to stroke the backs of another row of books. He watches the fingertip, mesmerized, just as she seems to be with the titles.

His tongue feels sluggish in his mouth. “Yes. Yes, she was smart. In other ways than I was. I was the clever one, but she was the wise one.”

Her fingertip comes to a rest on a back with the Elvish words ‘Ilyakor Quip: The Collection’ written across it. Poetry. Nothing Percy has ever bothered to read. That is not strictly true; he has read poetry, and he has loved it, but he has also hated it for its truths, and been frustrated with its slippery, fluid nature. It is much easier to read a book on mechanics; the rules stay the same no matter what.

Regardless, he has no idea what the significance of this Quip is, least of all to Vex’ahlia, this stranger dressed in blues and wrapped in a perpetual smell of pine, despite her recent bath.

Her lip quirks upward in a slight smile, but it seems sad to Percy, like she is recalling some bittersweet memory. With a similarly melancholic voice, she says, “My brother hated reading this man’s poetry so much that he once ate a full page of a book to make a point to our tutor.”

Percy isn’t sure what he expected too hear, but it wasn’t that. Before he can stop himself, he’s spluttering out a loud laugh.

His reaction comes with a prize: she looks up at him for the first time since entering the room, and on her face is a grin so wide and bright, it is as though he is staring into the sun. He forgets to breathe, subconsciously convinced for a moment that he can photosynthesize the radiance of her smile.

“I wish I could say that he has changed, and that you will like him, but I’m afraid both of those statements would be lies,” she jokes, not breaking eye-contact.

“If he is half as impressive as you, I’m sure I’ll like him.”

She blushes, but in that ‘pleasantly embarrassed’ way, and her smile becomes softer around the edges. “You flatter me, my Lord.”

“Oh, good,” he says, feeling the cheer slip into both voice and body, “then I am doing  _ something _ right as your betrothed.”

Vex snorts and fingers at the end of her braid. He finds himself wondering what she would think if they were engaged in the more traditional sense. As is obvious to any person with working eyes, she is beautiful. It is that simple. Percy, on the other hand, looks like a ghost. What might have been an advantageous height only emphasizes his unhealthy relationship to food, his skin is littered with scars, and no matter how much sleep he gets, purple shadows rest underneath his eyes. In other words, he is no candle to her wildfire of charm.

“I was thinking,” she says, and for some reason, his sleep-deprived mind convinces him for a moment that she is about to answer his unspoken question, but instead she continues, “when I go into town tomorrow… You said, once we are married, I get to hire people. Could I do that already now? Not that I don’t  _ adore _ your stews, dear, but it would be nice with some variety.”

“Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Allow me to show you the treasury after this.” Her eyes light up. He can’t look away. Without feeling his mouth move, he adds, “I might as well give you the key, too. Traditionally, the husband is in charge of those sorts of things, but the wife is in charge of the household, so I never really understood that particular tradition.”

“Percival, I like the way you think.”


	3. sending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for brief transmisogyny.

The city of Whitestone is as cold and depressing as she remembers it to be. This time, at least, her feet are warm in her borrowed boots. The look on Percival’s face when he handed them to her was one of pain, but he gave her no opportunity to ask if he was sure. He merely whisked her away to the treasury, which was not quite like a dragon’s lair. It was more like a library of money, in that it was neatly organized and not a free-for-all buffet.

Vex could probably very happily live out the rest of her days in that room, and now thirty gold pieces from it clink comfortably in her pouch, and the key dangles from her neck and hits her clavicle in a comforting way. How incredible, to be ensured safety and comfort and riches for the rest of her life.

The excitement is dulled by the state of the city of Whitestone, whose creaking buildings and sad-lipped citizens remind her of how terrible a lord Percival has been. Now that she has spoken with him a few times, it is not a side of him she likes to admit is there, but she must, if she is to fix this city’s problems.

He has given her a writ, too: a small letter of confirmation in case anyone doubts that she is the Lady-to-be, betrothed to their very Lord – which both she and Percival expect people to do. After all, what beautiful, young woman leaves her family to marry a grumpy mass-murderer who hasn’t been a proper member of society for five years?

Last night, after the trip to the treasury, he bid her good night and presumably stumbled directly to bed, because this morning, she didn’t hear him walking about in his workroom, and no stew was waiting for her. She sort of wishes she had asked him where to go when one needs to hire a cook.

In the end, she finds the inn she slept in on her way to Castle Whitestone, and informs the barkeep of her business. Any fool knows that the best way to spread news is by speaking with the innkeep. So she orders an expensive drink, to stimulate the bar owner’s economy, and takes a seat in the corner. 

That is, she tells him that she is seeking to hire a new team of staff for her estate. She does not specify that her estate will be Castle Whitestone. It might be dishonest of her, people have a right to know where they will work, but she doesn’t want to scare anybody off before she has even had a chance to speak with them.

Within the hour, she is approached by an elderly woman named Laina, a refugee from Emon, who claims to be a cook. She’s human, brown-skinned, and her dark silver hair is tamed in a bun. Vex immediately trusts her. They discuss pay and hours and Vex’s favorite foods for a while, before Vex finally admits the location of her estate. Laina pales, but her lips then set firmly and she nods. “I still accept your offer, my Lady,” she promises solemnly, and Vex is too touched to point out that she is not technically a lady yet.

“Oh, before you go,” she interjects when Laina rises, “do you know of anybody who sew traditional Riftenmist wedding gowns?”

Laina smiles but shakes her head. “No one I know, my Lady, but I am as much a stranger to this area as you. I will ask around for you, though, if you wish.”

“Please do, thank you. I will see to it that a room at the castle will be ready for you when you arrive tomorrow, though I expect to essentially renovate the whole thing during the next… well, months.”

With the exchange of a few, polite goodbyes, Laina leaves her. Vex takes a big swig from her glass. Alright, that was one. That only leaves gods-know-how-many. She sighs and takes another gulp.

Over the course of four hours, she is approached by several people interested in becoming the guards for her estate, a pair of builders (one a goliath and the other a gnome; it was fairly easy to guess which one brought the muscles, and which the brains), and a cleric without a local temple requesting the position of physician. The latter intrigues Vex when Vex admits to her estate being Whitestone Castle and the gnome cleric smiles peacefully and tells her that she already has rapport with the Lord.

Just past noon, a frazzled-looking half-elf walks into the tavern, completely inappropriately dressed for the chilly weather, and wearing a peculiar set of antlers on her head. Vex reads the stranger’s lips as the stranger asks the barkeep about renting a room, but the price is too steep for the woman, and she launches into a desperate plea for a discount that the barkeep dismisses with a grimace; he can’t afford to give anybody discounts. Tears well up into the woman’s eyes and her head hangs dejectedly, coincidentally making her antlers resemble coathangers.

Before she has fully thought it through, Vex finds herself approaching the woman. “Hi there,” she says, and immediately is given the full attention of the redhead. “Sorry to barge in, but – you need somewhere to stay tonight?”

The woman looks, understandably, skeptical. “Uh, y-yes. I do. I’m sorry, who are you?”

Vex glances over at the barkeep before shrugging to herself (she has acquired her most important staff, so she supposes there’s nothing to lose now), and says, “Lady Vex’ahlia de Rolo of Whitestone. At least, I will be, in the imminent future. I am engaged to be married to the Lord of Whitestone.”

The woman’s jaw drops, but then she smiles brightly and does an awkward courtesy. “I’m Keyleth of the Air Ashari.”

A very vague bell rings in the back of Vex’s mind, perhaps a fragment of her lessons. The Ashari are a people dedicated to the protection of the rifts between the Material Plane and the Elemental Planes. She doesn’t remember much more. “Well, Keyleth, would you like to spend the night at the Castle, as my guest? Fair bit of warning: it is a bit of a mess right now.”

Keyleth claps her hands together excitedly. “Yes! I mean, I don’t want to impose, but I was kind of mugged on my way here, so I don’t have any money, so that’s why I sort of can’t rent my own room, and–”

Vex clamps a hand down on Keyleth’s shoulder, although Keyleth is a little taller than Vex. “Don’t worry, dear, you’re no inconvenience.”

The red from Keyleth’s hair seeps into her tan skin to deepen its color. It’s charming. “Okay. Thank you.”

“No worries, darling. You know, I think I’ve finished my business in the city for today. Is there anything else you need or need to do here?”

“Uh, I don’t think so?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Vex decides. “Come on, then. I’ll show you to the Castle.”

Halfway out of the door, Vex’ahlia realizes that she has only brought the one horse, but Keyleth of the Air Ashari brightly informs her that she can be a bird, and at once transforms into a hawk. Vex has seen druidic magic before, and even wields some nature magic of her own, but she is still caught by surprise and giggles delightedly. The hawk makes an attempt at a smile, she thinks, but it just looks like it’s trying to dislocate its beak.

The travel back to Whitestone Castle is relaxed. Vex takes her time so she can observe the city and think to herself about the improvements she wants to make. There are so many that she quickly exhausts herself, so she looks to the sprawling forest, the Parchwood Forest as Percival has called it, that surrounds both the castle and the very outskirts of town. It is breathtaking. Once she has become the Lady, surely she will be allowed to explore it.

In front of her, on the saddle knob, sits the hawk and looks at their surroundings with as much interest and gusto as Vex herself. If Vex weren’t sure of Keyleth’s unfamiliarity with the area, it would have been painfully obvious now. But of course as soon as she agreed to spend the night in the same building as Percival de Rolo, she revealed herself as a stranger.

To Vex’s complete surprise, the courtyard is not empty when they finally reach it. As the hooves of the horse hit the cobblestone in their familiar rhythm, a head of white hair turns to them, and there is her ghost, fully lit by the midday sun. She cannot help but smile a little, this being the first time she has seen Percival outside, especially because he looks a like an owl disturbed during its slumber: his eyes are squinted, and his hair is tousled like ruffled feathers. The sun all but bounces off of his chalk-white skin. To a stranger, he would seem almost like a vampire.

“Ah, my Lady, you return,” he greets with a pleasant smile, which adds to her amusement. “And just as I was considering sending the calvary to your aid,” he adds, and nods to the wall, where, apparently, a guard is patrolling. A guard, already! Vex recognizes him from the inn and waves at him with a grin, a wave he respectfully returns.

“How very thoughtful of you, my Lord, but I was simply busy talking to the locals - and the not-so-locals.”

Keyleth takes her cue and leaps from the saddle, only to transform back into her half-elven form while still in the air. Semi-elegantly, she lands on her feet (but must wave her arms in the air to stay standing) and immediately drops into a courtesy. “I am Keyleth of the Air Ashari, my Lord. Your wife was nice to offer me a place to stay for the night.”

White eyebrows raise as Percival looks to Vex, who sends him a wink. He cracks a smile and looks back at the bowing druid. “Like I’m sure my wife to-be has already told you, you are most welcome here,” he says smoothly. “Just be wary if she asks you to tea with her; that is how she discovers your secrets.”

Delighted to hear this coy tone in his smart mouth, Vex says, with mock-outrage, “Percival, how dare you; I would never use dirty tactics on people who didn’t deserve it.”

He responds, rapid-fire, “Ah, and your selection process is reading people’s diaries?”

“No,” she says, nonchalant as can be, and climbs down from the horse to join the others on the ground, handing the reins to Percival while looking him in the eye, “you’re just special, darling.” She smiles and winks at him before turning away, her hair hopefully brushing just past his face so he can catch a whiff of her soap. “Keyleth, dear, care to accompany me so I can show you your guest room for the evening?”

The druid has a huge grin on her face, but seems almost startled when Vex offers her arm. “Y-yeah, yeah!” Keyleth quickly answers, regaining her smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You as well,” Percival says somewhere behind Vex, but she pointedly does not turn to look.

They have not taken ten steps before Keyleth says, “There’s something I wanted to ask you, if that’s alright.”

Old habits are hard to shake so Vex’s heart immediately begins thumping wildly in her chest. Her father has prefaced a stern lecture with a seemingly innocent question so many times that she has come to associate any introductory sentences like the one Keyleth just used, with the tear-stinging, wrath-brewing sensation of being lectured by her father. Logically, she knows that if Keyleth were to criticize her, she could literally kick her out, but Vex still feels small when she nods a ‘go on’.

Luckily, Keyleth wastes no time: “That tree in the middle of the city… do you know why it’s dead?”

Vex has to take a second to figure out what Keyleth is referring to, but belatedly realizes that she’s talking about the grandfather-like tree in the middle of the square, close to the inn she’s sat in all day. She has seen it but hasn’t paid it much mind. What she has noticed, though, is that it is  _ not _ evergreen, so she is a little confused by Keyleth’s question. “It’s winter?” she suggests.

Keyleth stares in response, then seems to regret her bold action and quickly looks away. “Sorry, my Lady, it’s just– I  _ know _ . But it’s a Sun Tree! They’re supposed to keep their leaves even in winter. Not only that, but the bark looks sick. It’s almost peeling off!”

As much time as Vex has spent in the forest, she must admit she does not know trees this intimately; her areas of expertise are creatures and pathfinding. If Keyleth says it looks sick and that it is a special breed called ‘Sun Tree’, Vex will believe her. “Oh. That sounds dreadful. Do you know what could help it?”

Keyleth shakes her head mournfully. “No… I mean, I have a few spells I could maybe try, but I’m not totally sure they would work. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

If this Sun Tree is sick, perhaps it would heighten the people of Whitestone’s spirits to see it being healthy again. It could be a great symbol for what Vex will attempt to do for the people of Whitestone, and perhaps it would make the people like her enough to let her try. Not only that, but it  _ is _ sad when a giant like that withers. No matter what, someone ought to heal it.

“How long are you planning to stay?”

Keyleth bites her lip. “Well, I’m doing my Aramente, but they don’t really have a time limit as such. I’m supposed to experience the world, too, and gather knowledge for myself, so I can become a great leader. So I guess it would actually be good if I stayed a little while? I mean, healing a Sun Tree would definitely be an incredible experience that might teach me a thing or two that I could use once I got back home…”

There is no doubt in Vex’s mind that Keyleth has already decided, so she cheerfully gives her an extra push, “I think it would be a unique challenge you wouldn’t find anywhere else! And you would be doing me, and all of Whitestone, a favor.”

Keyleth looks enthusiastic at the prospect of helping. This druid really seems to be the embodiment of  _ good _ . “Okay! I’ll stay, and I’ll do my very best to make that tree healthy again!”

Her excitement makes Vex giggle. “That sounds fantastic, dear. You’re welcome to stay at the castle for as long as you want. Don’t mind if Percival says anything; I am in charge here.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Keyleth giggles back. “How long have you been together?”

“Oh.” What is she supposed to say now? ‘Oh, I’m just marrying him for money and the magical stone that could potentially help my city win a war?’ She wants to be honest, but Keyleth looks at her with such trust in her doe eyes, and her hand has come to clasp Vex’s arm, and Vex has never had any other friend but Vax. “Barely any time at all; it’s a bit of a whirlwind romance.”

Keyleth’s eyes widen. “That’s so romantic! When did you meet?”

“Three months ago.” She’s about to add a story in which Percival came to Syngorn and she had to guide him through the city, but belatedly remembers that he never leaves this castle. Gods damn it. “Right out there, in the Parchwood Forest.” She smirks at the thought of Lord Percival walking in the forest in his stiff coat. “I saved his life from a rabid boar, and the rest is history.”

“Poor boar,” Keyleth muses.

Vex snorts. “It nearly tore a piece out of my arse.”

Once they have picked a guest room for Keyleth to stay in for the time being, Vex leaves the druid to her own devices; despite the relatively early hour, Keyleth looks like she’s ready to drop. Vex can relate. After the many hours of interviewing strangers carefully and being on her best, diplomatic behavior, she feels spent. If she were in Syngorn, this is when she would lie in bed and ask Vax’ildan to tell her the latest gossip he’d overheard, or ask him about anyone he fancied at the moment, or just feel him braid her hair.

Soon, she reminds herself wistfully. Soon, she will be whole again.

Her room is too quiet and dirty and dark to be comforting right now. Whitestone, generally, isn’t a very comfortable place. It probably was, once upon a time, but now it’s overrun with spiders and cluttered with dust and filth. The idea of what it once was or what it could become doesn’t help at the moment.

The Parchwood Forest. It comes to her like a revelation. Of course. The woods will set her right, just as they always have. She will walk out into it and spend a few hours reconnecting with herself. Hopefully, that will replenish her reserves of energy.

Stepping out into the courtyard, she sees Percival, still out in the open air as though he and it are good friends. What is he doing out here anyway? She tries to catch a glimpse of what it is he is working with, because he is most definitely fiddling with  _ something _ over there, but she doesn’t get much closer before he hastily puts his things away and turns around to face her, body blocking her from seeing the items.

There is a tight-lipped smile on his face when he says, “I need to speak with you.” Vex strangles a disappointed sigh. Her shoulders droop. “It’s-- your father replied.”

“Already?” she asks, mentally doing the mathematics of Percival’s message bird getting to Syngorn, Syldor writing a response, and the message bird getting to Whitestone. It seems  _ fast  _ but perhaps not  _ impossible _ . Vex finds it difficult to process the flow of time these days.

Percival nods stiffly. “He sent me a message through  _ Sending _ , the spell. He has sent word to Emon to have Vax’ildan retrieved and sent here, so I will estimate that your brother will be here in… I don’t know, perhaps two or three weeks? It depends on several factors.”

Vex’s heart soars at those news. She assumed it would be at least a month until she would have Vax’ildan next to her, but two weeks! She couldn’t have dreamed of that. Despite Percival’s lackluster spirit, Vex grins widely. “Thank you, Percival, I--”

His hand, held up with its palm facing her, interrupts her. There is a pained expression on his face. “Don’t thank me yet. Your father said something very confusing.”

The poor, little, beating heart of Vex’ahlia Vessar drops to the floor of her stomach in an instant. This conversation. She swallows and does what Vax’ildan always tells her to: she imagines a vast space between her and Percival, an ocean of distance, and she imagines an intricate armor covering her body from top to toe. Vax whispers in her ear:  _ Say the word, and I’ll dagger, dagger, dagger. _

Apparently, Percival has yet to see the dread on Vex’s face, because he continues, just as awkwardly, “Parents aren’t always right. Sometimes, they’re the people who know their children the least, I certainly wasn’t close with  _ my  _ parents, but I didn’t want to  _ assume  _ that he’s just being an arse, because he is my future father-in-law, and…” He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Should I really be calling you my future husband?”

There it is. Finally. Vex runs her tongue across her lip. “No.” Her voice is solid and calm. “My father calls me his son, but he is wrong. I have always been a woman. Regardless of what the clerics mistakenly called me at birth.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” he breathes, and Vex could swear that he actually looks  _ relieved _ . That startles her. She has come to expect disgust or begrudging acceptance, but not the relaxed smile that now crosses his face.

“That is… not the usual response. Were you worried to come across as gay?”

He laughs breathily and shakes his head. “No, no, in fact, even if I were marrying for love, my spouse could have been anyone, really. No, my concern was… these  _ Sending  _ spells, they allow the receiver to respond instantaneously, and I may have used my response to tell your father, in a not-so-kind way, to address my fiancée and future Lady of Whitestone with the respect that she is entitled to.”

As he stands there in front of her, dressed in all of his nobleman finery, including that long coat of his, he looks almost shy at this admission, of essentially having told her father to take a long trek to the Nine Hells for misgendering her. Although her mother always supported her, and Byroden had been a blessed community to live in in her informative years, she is not used to having anyone in her corner, fighting her battles, other than Vax’ildan. For so long, it has been the two of them against the world, in all situations, but especially this. And while he is no hero for doing what is right, Vex feels her chest grow warm with the realization that another fighter has joined their side of the war. She wishes she could have decided if that information ever made it to Percival, but she cannot fault him for what her father has done.

The world blurs. That is how Vex’ahlia knows she is about to cry. So she, desperate not to let her tears show, flings her arms around his neck (she must stand on her toes to reach) and hides her moistening face in the wool of his coat. “Thank you, darling,” she says into his ear, and breathes in smoke.

He is entirely rigid for four seconds, until, at the very moment Vex considers stepping back, his arms come up to awkwardly wrap around her waist and hold her in the loosest hug she has ever received. His chest barely moves, like he’s too afraid to breathe. “Say the word, and I will have the finest sellswords of Tal’Dorei take care of him.”

High with relief and anguish and joy, Vex laughs a little too loudly. His promise sounds like something her brother would say.

 

***

 

After a week of Laina’s cooking, Percy isn’t sure how he has survived for as long as he has without it. Surprisingly, the sudden influx of people has not been as stressful as he imagined it to be. Laina’s presence is comforting in a motherly sort of way, and it is strangely nice to have guards -- he sort of thought he would be annoyed with their attempts at keeping him alive, but now that Vex’ahlia is here and directing people on how to restore the castle, he doesn’t mind sticking around to see it be completed.

Orthax has been quiet, too. Ever since the night in the forest, he hasn’t had any incidents. He knows it is only a matter of time, and there now is the added danger of everyone around him, but he privately wonders if it is not worth the risk. For the first time in a long time, he feels awake.

Pike Trickfoot has made her home in the castle, too. The day she arrived she gave him a long monologue about how disappointed in him she was, but she followed it up with a gentle pat to his cheek and a promise that she and Grog would look after him. Grog, too, has become a part of the working force on the castle, though through his talent of being a strongman and trusting a gnome by the name Scanlan Shorthalt more than anyone else -- except for Pike, of course.

It is humbling to remember that he once had friends.

Vex’ahlia notices his familiarity with both Pike and Grog, and asks him curiously, and her hair is a mess, and her eyes are full of enthusiasm for the plans she and the druid, Keyleth, have been making to help the Sun Tree in town, so he cannot refuse her. He tells her of how Pike found him, immediately after the dreadful night. She healed him, and he stayed with her and her foster brother for a year, hidden from the detection of the Briarwoods. Then, one night, he left without a word. He has been at the castle ever since.

“I like them,” is all she says, even though he knows that she wants to chastise him for his terrible behavior. What is there to do about it now, though? It is all in the past. So he smiles and agrees and excuses her from the breakfast table so she can go talk shop with Scanlan.

While the others are busy, he keeps to himself in his workshop. His current project is one that he is, frankly, a little embarrassed about: it is a piece of jewelry. It is rough and simple so far, because he is no jeweller, but he wants to craft something that can act as a sort of wedding band, without being an actual ring, while also being something that Vex’ahlia can perhaps enjoy despite its connotations. It is a gold clasp, shaped like a tangled mess of vines: an inside joke, and a reminder that she is in control. He hopes that is a sentiment she will like.

Something looks off on the design, though. He can’t quite place it. Normally, he would go into the forest and compare it to the vines out there, but it is freezing winter, so not only will he be cold to the bones, but he might not find any at all. He barely manages to feel disappointment, before he remembers one of his guests: Keyleth, the druid.

It is well past noon at this point of the day. Given that he doesn’t know much about Keyleth’s schedule, though, that doesn’t tell him anything. He turns out to be lucky, because when he wagers a guess and knocks on her door, she calls out, “It’s open!”

Inside the room, the long-limbed half-elven woman is sat with folded legs in the middle of the floor and a quietly satisfied smile on her face. Her eyes open when she hears the door creak. Immediately, her eyes widen and her mouth drops, and she scrambles to get up on her feet, until Percy holds up a hand to stop her. “Lord de Rolo!” she exclaims with a squeak. “Can I-- is anything wrong? Oh no, it’s the Sun Tree, isn’t it?”

Although her reaction is fair, Percy is mildly amused that she assumes he can only interact with other people when things are dire. Well, in some sense, they are: he is bored, and his project is going sideways. “It’s not the Sun Tree -- it’s not anything, actually. Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if you would help me with something, a small thing.”

She perks up. “Of course! I mean, I’ll do what I can, but yes, I’ll definitely do my best.”

Now that Vex’ahlia has revealed to him the location of his notebook, it is permanently on his person, so he whips it out as he sits down across from Keyleth. “Could you call out a vine or two? I’m working on a project, but something isn’t looking right. I just want to sketch them a bit, figure out exactly how they interact.”

“Oh, yes, no problem!” With that, she says a brief incantation, and a handful of vines sprout from the floor and wrap themselves around her lower body. “I hope that works!”

Percy is stunned into laughter. “Does that not hurt?”

Keyleth shrugs a shoulder. “Not really; I control them, so I can tell them not to hurt me. It’s sort of like a really tight hug. Kind of nice, actually.”

“Well, good, then I don’t feel bad,” he says, and flips to a clean set of pages to start sketching the vines from different angles.

They sit in silence for all of a whole minute, until Keyleth speaks up. “Is what you’re making something for Vex?”

He nearly drops his pencil, but feigns nonchalance. “Why would you think that?”

“You don’t seem like a nature sort of guy to me, but Vex makes vines, and she loves the forest.”

“Very perceptive. Yes, I’m making it for her.”

“Like a wedding gift?”

He hums an affirmative.

“Do you need any help?”

Percy looks up at her, over his glasses. “You are literally helping right now.”

“Oh, right.”

They sit in silence for a while, which doesn’t bother Percy, used, as he is, to the complete absence of people. Keyleth must not be used to the same, though, because after a few minutes she awkwardly braves a question. “So, why did the boar attack you in the first place? Were you out  _ looking _ for a boar?”

This woman speaks in mad riddles, he thinks to himself, and pauses his drawing to give her the most confused look he can muster. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” she giggles shrilly, “sorry, Vex told me the story of how you met, and she said she saved you from that boar, and I was just wondering how you’d ended up in that situation in the first place – but now I’m realizing it was probably just a hunting incident, right?”

The story of how you… Percy needs to have his ears checked. “Right,” he repeats, uncertain but instinctively knowing that he wants to continue this lie. “It overpowered me, the beast. I am lucky Vex’ahlia showed up when she did.”

Keyleth sighs wistfully. “It’s a very romantic way to meet, really. Did you know you would fall in love with her, right then and there? Love at first sight?”

He remembers how she appeared behind him in the workshop; how she quickly convinced him, though she did not know she was doing it, that she would be perfect for Whitestone. “Something like that…”

“Sorry, am I being too forward? I’m being too forward, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“Perhaps not, according to most social rules, but it’s alright. No harm done.”

They chat idly for another half hour. There isn’t much they have in common, but Percy appreciates her candor, which is always followed up by an awkward apology. She is very kind, and kindness is not something he has gotten used to yet, despite Vex’ahlia’s excellent work towards it. The whole time, though, Percy returns to those words. ‘Love at first sight’. He needs to speak with Vex’ahlia and ask her what in the Nine Hells she’s playing at, deceiving a poor druid like this? 

His prayers are answered when, halfway through sketching a large daisy-like flower Keyleth has conjured in her hand, there is a knock on the door. Innocent, carefree Keyleth of course immediately calls out, “Come in!” with no thought as to how their current situation might look: Percy’s coat long-since draped over one of her chairs, and her barefooted and -shouldered. 

As one might have guessed from the precise but light knock, their visitor is Vex’ahlia herself, clad in a light dress (no doubt for the heavy-duty work that she insists on occasionally performing with the goliath, despite her lacking strength). Her hair is gathered on top of her head for once, but it is braided like a snake on top, so it looks familiar despite this detour from her normal look. Hazel eyes glint with excitement, lit up by her big, grinning mouth. Percy swears he can feel a brush of fresh air.

“Oh, Percival,” she says, her excitement dropping some, which Percy cannot help but take personally, though he cannot fault her for her lack of enthusiasm, “I didn’t expect to see you here. What are you doing?”

He smiles and takes this moment to flip the script on her. “No need to be jealous, dear; Keyleth was just helping me perfect the nature designs for my next couple of projects.”

His tone obviously surprises her, but as soon as her eyes flicker to Keyleth, she seems to remember her lie, and a cheeky smile creeps onto her lips. “You’re assuming I would be jealous of  _ Keyleth _ .”

Delighted, Percy claps a hand onto his chest in mock-outrage and gasps. Then he grimaces at the ceiling and concurs, “No, you know what, that’s fair, that’s entirely fair.”

Vex’ahlia rolls her eyes in an endearing way, and ruffles his hair as she steps next to him to address Keyleth. Whatever she says, though, is drowned out by the pleasure he feels from her nails softly scraping his scalp and her fingertips swirling his hair. Nobody has touched him in an absentminded gesture of familiarity for five years. He didn’t realize how good it could feel, even if both the absentminded quality and the familiarity are lies. When her hand is pulled back, he must resist the urge to chase her touch. “... should probably just come along and see for yourself.”

“Before you go anywhere, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

Vex’ahlia looks down at him, eyebrows raised. “Of course, dear. Keyleth, do you mind if we use your room for a second?”

Keyleth is on her feet in a flash. Giggling nervously under her breath, she says, “Nope! That’s fine. I’m just gonna-- I’ll just go down to the dining room and wait for you there.” She shuffles out and closes the door behind her.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he pauses to maximize her confusion before adding, “for saving me from that wild boar, a few months ago."

It takes her a second, but then her cheeks darken. “Right… I meant to tell you, I’ve just been sort of busy. Anyway, my thought was… we want the people to like me, but not only that: we want them to have hope. No offence, darling, but  your administration has severely damaged your relationship with the locals. In order for change to happen, they need to  _ believe  _ that this change will happen. That isn’t going to be the case if we admit that our marriage will be a business contract. It will only cement their discontent with you. But if I can be the kind, brave woman, who changed your heart and made you fall in love? Then I can be the woman, who rescues Whitestone. I know I should have discussed these things with you beforehand, but Keyleth sprung a question on me the day we met.”

Vex’ahlia Vessar has done the impossible: she has stunned Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third to silence.  _ Clever woman _ , is all he can think.

After a few seconds of silence, he stammers himself through some “I, um”s before he manages, through a cough, “That is actually not a bad idea.”

She smiles. That feeling of fresh air rushing into the room returns. “Thank you, Percival. Now, if you have the time to sit with Keyleth for the Gods know how long, do you perhaps have a minute to come downstairs and give your input on upholstery?”

Although he doesn’t go without a groan, he does go.

 

***

 

They are making serious headway in the reconstruction of both the formal dining hall and the large sitting room when, a week later, Jarrett, captain of the guard, informs her that they’ve spotted a sole rider on their way to the castle.

Her heart leaps within her chest, excited to be reunited with its second half. Vax!

Immediately, she excuses herself (at which Scanlan only makes a mild joke), and runs to clamper down the stairs that lead to Percival’s workshop. Without knocking, she tries the door, but it’s locked. Momentarily pulled out of her euphoria, she frowns.

It has been about three weeks now, since they met each other. They speak daily, if only a ‘hello’ in passing. So although she should have expected this, it is disappointing to be forced to knock and call out for him.

“Percival!” she yells through the door. “My brother is on his way. Get decent!!” With that, she leaps back upstairs, determined not to let Percival’s oddities distract her from the joy of Vax’s return.

She all but bounces out to the courtyard, and must repeatedly jump in place to keep warm; she forgot to bring her woolen cloak, and she doesn’t want to go inside and get it, out of fear of missing his exact arrival.

“He is still a few minutes away, my Lady,” Jarrett calls out to her from his spot on the castle wall.

“What on Earth are you doing?” She spins around, hand halfway above her head where it was about to wave at Jarrett. Behind her, Percival stands, looking proper as ever – and warm, in his long coat. “Whitestone winters have given me a cold for less. Here,” and without looking at her, he begins undoing his coat.

“Percival, that’s really not necessary.”

“Perhaps not,” he concedes, which she likes, “but my mother will be spinning in her grave if I do not do this.” The casual reference to his mother 

catches her off-guard; it is the first time since he lent her Vesper’s shoes that he has spoken of his family, and she’s not sure he has ever made a joke involving them in front of her before. She, carefully, takes it as a sign of growing friendship.

The coat is heavier than anticipated, though she’s not sure why she expected it to be light. Perhaps because Percival is not the strongest individual on the planet. But it is heavy and warm and several sizes too big; it actually lightly scrapes the ground. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though. If anything, he looks amused.

Just like Percival, the coat smells of smoke and sulfur.

“Thank you.”

“Thank my mother for raising me according to the standards of a romance novel. I will give the two of you some space. You can find me in the sitting room if you need me.”

“Thank you, Johanna,” she says, glancing up at the sky for his benefit. There’s a sad but soft smile on his lips when she looks back down at him. “I will find you.”

He nods, still smiling, and retreats back into the castle. She smiles into the coat and breathes in smoke.

Horse hooves announce her brother’s presence a few minutes later, mere seconds before he appears in the courtyard, all-black clothing ragged from the fast ride. She runs to him, and he stops the horse just to leap off of it and sprint to her. They meet in a solid hug, and he lifts her a few inches off of the ground (which is all he has the strength for) for good measure.

“Oh, Stubby, I’ve missed you,” he breathes into her hair, while his hair tickles her face.

She tightens her arms around him and giggles freely. Something inside of her has finally settled down to rest. “It’s Lady Stubby, actually.”

“So I’ve heard.” He ends their embrace and crosses his arms in front of his chest, black eyebrow raising expectantly. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

That sure is her brother, always ready to discuss sensitive and heavy matters at the drop of a hat, and in the most impractical of situations. Vex isn’t particularly interested in having a long talk just at this moment. Mostly because she may have been enjoying being able to boss Scanlan and Grog around, and see something come to life right in front of her eyes, but she still hasn’t quite grasped what marriage will entail. Of course, if she asked Percival, he would probably say that it would change nothing, since her only ‘wifely duties’ will be to carry out the restoration of Whitestone, but it still seems… monumental to her. Perhaps because of her cultural expectations of marriage. It doesn’t seem to bother Percival as much; like he said once, all his life, he knew an arranged marriage could be a possibility.

“Can we not discuss this later?”

Vax holds his stare for just a moment, but then he drops it, because he loves her, and they haven’t seen each other for about a month and a half now. There’s a slight smile on his lips when he reaches out and tousles her hair. “Fine. But we  _ are _ discussing it.”

She bats his hand away and runs her fingers through her hair. “We are,” she promises, dropping her voice half an octave to emphasize that she is taking this just as seriously as he is. “How was Emon?”

“About as exciting as you’d assume.”

“Does that mean ‘very’ because of the war, or ‘not at all’ because of the war?”

“Both of those, yeah. Can we, like, go inside? It’s fucking cold out here.”

“Yes, fine. Jarrett?” Jarrett’s face peeks over the castle wall to look attentively at Vex. “Would you mind taking care of my brother’s horse, or have someone else do it? I haven’t gotten around to hiring a stable hand yet.”

Jarrett frowns, but shrugs. “As you wish, my Lady. I think perhaps one of the other guards has a boy who could be hired for the stable, for the future. Do you want me to sort that out?”

“Please, yes, that would be excellent! Thank you, Jarrett,” and because he’s a good-looking man and she likes flirting, she adds, “you always know just what to do.” This might poke a few holes in the lie she tries to tell about her and Percival genuinely being in love, but plenty of people in love have arrangements that would more than justify a bit of flirting or sleeping around.

Jarrett, at least, doesn’t seem shocked -- though, he smirks in a smugly surprised sort of way. “Only because I am inspired by you, my Lady.”

Vex laughs with delight, and curls her arm around Vax’s. Her twin is watching her with a decidedly disgusted look on his face. Mostly to annoy Vax, she calls out, “Have a good rest of your watch, Captain,” just as they begin walking to the castle entrance.

“Trouble in paradise already?” Vax drawls, looking like darkness itself.

She nudges him playfully. Despite his disapproval, his presence has already made her as light as a feather. “Percival is not a creepy man, brother, he doesn’t require me to sleep with him just because we’re getting married. What he wants is for me to take care of his family home so he can do whatever in the Nine Hells it is he does in his workshop all day. And that, I can definitely do.”

“And you’re  _ sure  _ he’s not skinning people alive down there?”

“If he is, he’s very capable at silencing them.” Vax stares at her. She rolls her eyes. “Yes,  _ I am sure _ . I’ve gone down there a couple of times. It just looks like what I’d imagine an inventor’s workshop looks like.”

“And he’s not watching you sleep or anything creepy like that?”

She swats at his arm. “Are you done?” He grumbles. “Good, because we are on our way to the sitting room, which is where I will introduce the two of you, and I want you to be nice.”

Just as promised, Percival is waiting in the sitting room. He sits in one of the new armchairs that she has chosen: green with details in gold. In his hand is a book that he is idly reading, the expression on his face one of relaxation and only mild interest. Vex can barely read the title:  _ The Squall Eater _ . It seems to be fiction, then. Interesting, considering that the library is stock-full of nonfiction. Even more intriguing: he must have had it on him or near the sitting room, because it would have been too much of a hassle for him to have gone to the library just to select a book to skim while waiting for a few minutes.

When he looks up, she remembers that she is still wrapped in his coat. Heat rising to her cheeks in embarrassment, she shrugs it off while introducing the two men to each other. “Percival, this is my brother, Vax’ildan. Vax, this is Percival.”

Percival puts away the book and rises from his seat. There is a perfectly polite smile on his face. It catches her off-guard until she remembers that he must have been trained in etiquette when he was a child, even if he didn’t display it to his full capabilities when they met. “Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III,” he rattles off as he extends his hand to shake Vax’s. “But, as Vex’ahlia has already said, you may call me--”

“Freddie,” Vax interrupts, squinting at Percival. “I think Freddie will do fine for now.”

Percival looks bewildered. Although she wants to swat at Vax again, Vex finds it hard not to giggle at Percival’s dumbfounded expression. “Perhaps you were right,” he says, looking to Vex. She is inclined to agree, but is not certain what she is right about this time. That seems to show on her face, because he adds, “Perhaps your brother is still the boy who ate a book whose poetry he didn’t like.”

This time, Vex is startled by her own snort. Vax immediately, outraged as he is by this betrayal from her, pokes her in the shoulder, which is now unprotected by Percival’s heavy coat, and looks at Percival, eyes still narrowed. “And if you hurt my sister, you will find out what happens when I don’t like  _ people _ .”

Surprisingly, Percival nods with a solemn look on his face. “I expect it would be nothing less than what I deserved, should that ever happen.”

Vex sighs. “As both of you should be aware of, I can both protect  _ and _ avenge myself.” She holds out the coat to Percival. “Here. Thank you for lending it to me.”

He gingerly takes it and folds it over one arm. It almost looks like a shield on him, which he might need if Vax continues to stare this hard at him. “You’re quite welcome. Well, Vax’ildan, if you ever feel the need to threaten me again, your sister will know where to find me. I will see the two of you at dinner.” With that, he flees.

The twins are quiet for a moment.

“I can’t believe you’re marrying that prick.”

Vex slaps his chest. 

 

***

 

“Pike?” He knocks gently on her door and waits.

A few seconds of rustling later, she calls out, “One second!” and after another few seconds, the door opens to reveal a heavily breathing but broadly grinning gnome. “Sorry, I was just in the middle of a workout. Gotta stay ready at all times, am I right?”

He laughs; he can’t do anything else when Pike is practically bouncing with joy and energy. “You and Grog grow more and more similar every day that passes; soon, we won’t know who’s who.”

She laughs too, and flexes. “With these puppies? Yeah, I can see why you’d confuse us.”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

He glances down the hallway, but can see nobody in the vicinity. “I will need to ask Vex’ahlia first, of course, but I thought perhaps you would be so kind as to marry us?”

Her hands immediately cradle her mouth in surprise, but he can see a smile in her eyes. “Yes! Of course! Although, I’m not very good at speeches or-or marrying people. Well, I might be, I haven’t done it before.”

“To be fair, I haven’t gotten married before,” he jokes, before adding, “I imagine, if Vex’ahlia is okay with it, her brother and some of the staff can act as witnesses, so it won’t be a big affair at all. Smaller than I expected.”

“You almost sound disappointed.”

“Really?” He shakes his head. “No, no, not disappointed. It’s just been a while since there has been anything to celebrate. I suppose I’m just not certain of how to go about that.”

Pike’s smile grows warmer and fonder, and she reaches out to take his hand. Although it must be a trick of his mind, he swears her hand gently burns with radiant power. (Perhaps it does and the monster inside of him is allergic.) “Well, I will be there for you, and so will Grog. I’m sure, wherever your family is, they will be watching, too.”

He grimaces. “Yes, I’m slightly worried about that. Not sure what my father would say to this whole ordeal.”

Her grip tightens, but not in a comforting way; it feels like a tug. When he looks down at her, she’s frowning stubbornly. “You do what you can, just like we all do, so just– pull yourself together.”

“You’re right,” he mutters, staring at her, “you’re right. I’m sorry.”

She lets go and shrugs, half a grin already back in place. “I accept your invitation to be your priest. Now, I’m going to get back to working out these bad boys, and you’re going to talk to your fiancée about wedding details.”

As always, Pike is the sensible one.

Although, the conversation with Vex’ahlia must wait until after dinner; he is in no mood to discuss their nuptials in front of her brother.

 

***

 

Dinner starts out awkward, to say the least. But once Vax has told a story about a particularly brutal clash he saw in Emon, he and Grog are the best of buds. Scanlan, too, engages in their conversation, though mostly with sardonic remarks. That keeps Vax occupied, which means no squinting at Percival, who spends dinner talking with Keyleth about traditional Ashari jewellery, which is an odd topic, but Vex chalks it up to Keyleth’s habit of nervously chatting and Percival’s interest in beautiful things.

That leaves her and Pike to chat, which suits her just fine; Pike is a fireball of a ‘monstah’, as Grog fondly calls her, who has an incredibly comforting, almost motherly side to her as well. They easily chat about this and that, like Grog insisting he could lift a column the other day and accidentally breaking it in the process, and songs Pike learned from other sailors when she was at sea, and pranks Vex has played on her brother.

Her plan is to read after dinner. Before she engages with the city, at least any further than the work Keyleth has done with the Sun Tree, which looks healthier but not entirely well, Vex wants to know more about Whitestone’s history. Knowing where people come from makes it easier to figure out where they would perhaps want to go, or what their priorities would be. Of course, she plans to ask the people directly, too, but she doesn’t want to seem like an intruding foreigner. The least she can do is lay some groundwork for good leadership.

So far, she hasn’t made it through the large tome that sits on her bedside table. Vax has already made a joke about her being a nerd, though neither of them have been particularly studious, as much as Vex didn’t outright  _ eat poetry _ . Being a nerd about the place one is set to rule isn’t so bad, though.

Vex’s plans of an evening of studying are interrupted by the approach of Percival. She is saying her good nights to the rest of their company, minus Vax because they will be sharing her room tonight to make up for lost time, when he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Before you leave, could I speak with you for a moment?”

Although Vex prides herself on her awareness of her surroundings, she isn’t exactly an expert in being aware of  _ people _ . Sometimes, she has a bright moment, but most of the time, if the person is a closed book like Percival, she is not much cleverer than the average person. Nevertheless, she takes a moment to study him. His hands are clasped in front of his body, unmoving. His eyes don’t meet hers exactly. His back is stiff. The Lord is nervous, perhaps even embarrassed.

This will be about Vax. She is certain of it.

Vex steels herself for a fight. As much as she has come to respect Percival, Vax is her favorite person in the world. If Percival says anything unreasonable, she is not certain she won’t break off the engagement and the deal. So he’d better not say something unreasonable.

“Of course, dear,” she says, fairly successful in not conveying her dread. “The library?”

There’s a twitch of his lip. They haven’t been in the library together since the night they had tea. Not on purpose, of course, but Vex barely spends any time in there at all. “That sounds … appropriate.”

That is a ‘yes’ in Percival-speak. Vex nods. She turns briefly to Vax, “Feel free to hang out in my room, if you want. Keyleth can show you.”

“But we was gonna fight,” the booming voice of Grog objects, a puppy-like expression of pure disappointment on his face.

Vax grins and slaps Grog on the arm. “Don’t worry, big guy, we will. I’ll be fine, sister, I’m in good company.”

“Mh, debatable,” Scanlan drawls.

Vex shakes her head. “Sure, have a good fight, just don’t tire out my handymen too much; I’d prefer not to have to find any others.”

“As if you could find anyone worthy of replacing us.”

She rolls her eyes at Scanlan’s arrogance, but cannot smother a small smile. “Only because the town is so little, darling.”

“‘Little darling’? My, I thought you were supposed to be a  _ nice _ queen.”

This time, she laughs. As does Grog, heartily, and he slaps Scanlan’s back and nearly sends the gnome flying. Vax looks slightly exasperated, while Keyleth just looks confused at the entire situation.

Percival seems supremely uncomfortable. His hands are white and pink from the constant, restless twisting of this fingers. Vex frowns and regards him at length. “Shall we, Percival?”

Immediately, he snaps to action: he drops his hands and holds out his arm for her to take. She does, her fingers digging into the rough material of his coat. Although she is apprehensive about what he has to say about Vax, his obvious nerves seem to reveal that there is a bargain to be made. Vex’ahlia can handle a bargain.

As soon as they are out of earshot of the others, she says, “I really am sorry for my brother, he doesn’t have the right to speak to you the way that he does, but I hope that you will let me speak to him about it. I’m sure I could convince him to stop this ridiculous behavior.”

“Yes – what?” Percival stops, which means she stops, and blinks down at her. “You will speak to Vax’ildan?”

She wets her lips and looks away, feeling shame burn the tips of her ears. In the back of her mind, she can hear Elvish being spoken in a mocking tone. “Yes, of course, Percival, I will make sure he acts… appropriately.”

“I…  _ huh _ .” With every second that ticks by, Vex can feel more and more of her skin being set aflame by embarrassment. “That– no, you don’t have to do that. I can’t believe I’m saying this, and you mustn’t let him know, but as much as his frankness is a little unsettling, I… sort of like him. I– it’s  _ refreshing _ . Vax’ildan and you, you’re both so… improper.”

Vex cannot believe her own ears. She looks up in the middle of his monologue to stare at his mouth as it moves, desperate to check with her other senses to make sure he is truly saying that he  _ likes _ Vax. He is. As he’d say:  _ Pelor’s balls _ . She laughs in disbelief and looks up at his eyes, which are on her, a curious glimpse in the ocean depths. “And that’s a  _ good _ thing?”

“Well,” he says, now smirking at his shoes as he leads her onwards, “depending on the situation, of course, but I think I have experienced enough propriety in my life. It is time for something different. Something genuine. Keyleth has helped me realize that, believe it or not."

Of course it would be Keyleth. Vex huffs out a laugh but isn’t sure how genuine it feels, which is odd because she likes the druid quite a lot. “Oh, I believe it. She’s quite the free spirit. I like her. I might ask her to hang around once the Sun Tree has been cured, though that might take ages anyway.”

“You know, the Sun Tree was actually created-”

“- by Pelor, god of the sun and light, the traditional deity of the region?” she interrupts, and derives quite a lot of pleasure from seeing him stare wide-eyed down at her. She smirks and bumps his arm with her shoulder. “Forget it, Percival, I’ve been reading. You’re no longer the only living expert on Whitestone.” The words are out of her mouth before she can think them through. _The_ _only living_. She privately grimaces.

But Percival doesn’t seem to mind, if he even notices, because he laughs down at his shoes, and it’s a good laugh, it’s breathy and light, like an air spirit, and Vex smiles. “Apologies, my Lady, I did not realize whom I was speaking to.”

“Hm,” she ponders jokingly, taping her chin with a finger, “I suppose I will forgive you.”

“Incredibly generous.”

“Mh, yes.”

They lapse into silence but both are smiling to themselves and the floor, and Vex wonders if perhaps this marriage ordeal won’t be so bad after all. She enjoys Percival’s company. Many wives cannot say the same about their husbands.

He clears his throat. “Speaking of your brother, I suppose there is no reason to put off the marriage ceremony any longer.”

She snorts and pulls at his arm. “You are allowed to sound happier about marrying me.”

Again he laughs breathily in the way that makes him seem younger – perhaps almost as young as he really is. “Forgive me, I just worry about becoming a pin cushion for daggers.”

“There is no need to worry about  _ that _ , darling; Vax threatens, but if you hurt me,  _ I’ll _ be the one maiming you,” she assures him and pats his chest.

“What on Earth am I marrying into?” 

An undignified squeak, unlike anything that should be emerging from a frame as tall as his, is released as her finger prods into his side. A comical expression of outrage is on his face. Vex has to laugh.

“Terrible woman,” he grumbles, but as much as he tries to hide it, Vex can see the slight smile on his face. “If you’ll allow me to continue?” She’s still giggling but she waves her hand to indicate her agreement. “Good. Well…” There is an odd quality to his voice, and he clears his throat unnecessarily loud. “I asked Pike if she would officiate us. I know we discussed a cleric of Pelor, but you said you had no preference, and now that Pike is here, there is frankly nobody I would like better to do this. Not to mention, with a decent amount of staff on hand, it means we could keep it here.”

It is very surreal, listening to him talk about their impending marriage. Sure, it has been their agreement for weeks, but it still seems unreal. Vex worries her lip between her teeth. At least they are still walking, so she isn’t required to look him in the eye.

Pike is nice. She wouldn’t mind Pike officiating. She wonders if there’s anything between Pike and Percival. Men and women can be friends, of course, but she can’t quite pinpoint what kind of friendship theirs is. On the other hand, what sick bastard would ask his girlfriend to officiate his marriage to his wife?

“I have no reason to object to Pike marrying us,” she says to the corridor, “and having the wedding here would … honestly, it would make me feel a lot less nervous about the whole thing.”

“ _ Less _ nervous?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised. She looks up at him in confusion, her brow furrowed. “The bigger the audience, the calmer I am, personally,” he adds. His eyes are tracing the lines between the stones in the floor and there is a sheepish grimace on his face. Embarrassment is a sort of endearing look on him. “The more people, the more it’s  _ not _ people, it’s … just a wall of faces.”

It is a surprising turn of events that Percival should be comfortable with  _ any _ sort of company, much less the company of hundreds. But, as far as his thinking is from her own (more people means more people to watch her fail), she thinks she understands. A crowd he can depersonalize. She is secretly smug that he has shared a piece of him with her without needing any prompting. Perhaps Keyleth is rubbing off on him. It’s definitely the first time since they visited Vesper’s room together that he’s revealed something so personal about himself.

“Does that mean you would rather be married in the city?”

“Gods no. I have no disillusions about Whitestone, Vex’ahlia. I know I have been acting very shamefully towards its populace. Besides, as little as I believe in ghost stories, I … think it’s rather fitting to be married here in the castle.”

They walk in silence, until they finally reach the library. It has been cleaned since their last visit, but not thoroughly. Vex leans against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed over her chest, and observes Percival critically. His hands fidget with something in his pocket. “Do you think we should continue pretending to be in love? I mean, we’ve hardly put on a show here. I doubt anybody but Keyleth would believe us at this point, and only because she thinks I am too kind to lie. But I do think there are those advantages to pretending I mentioned before. Perhaps we ought to start spending time together every day – like in here.”

“Our room,” he adds with a sly smile, eyes twinkling with mirth over their shared joke.

She grins back. “Our room.”

“I think that would be agreeable. Yes. Perhaps in the evening, after dinner?”

“I can work with that.”

It looks like there’s more he wants to say, so Vex keeps her own words at bay and observes him. His hands fidget again, this time behind his back. Does he have something behind there that she didn’t see him sneak out of his pocket? His lips keep parting and then closing. There’s a jerky quality to how his eyes move around the room. 

Overall, it is… cute. Endearing.

“When people marry, they often wear rings,” he finally blurts out, and she wants to laugh out of surprise that  _ this _ is his concern. “I thought that might be a little too much, to force you to look at something signifying you being tied to me in some way, so I… I sort of made something to replace it. Well, for you. I’m perfectly fine wearing a ring. But, um, yes, I made this as an alternative that could… remind you that you are in control.”

With that, he presents his gift. Vex gasps delightedly, and steps closer to him to pick it up from his palm. It is a palm-sized hair clasp, shaped like a mess of vines. It is gold and dotted with tiny, little diamonds that glitter as she turns the clasp, over and over, marvelling at the intricate design. It is decidedly homemade by someone who is not a jeweler, but it is made with such obvious care and dedication that she almost wants to cry. And the sentiment behind the vines, a reminder of how she held him in her spell until she wanted to let him go, is not lost on her. It is expensive, it is considerate, and it is  _ beautiful _ . How could she not love it?

Choking on gratitude, Vex lifts up onto her toes and swings her arms around Percival’s neck. He stiffens under her. When he doesn’t soften, she almost withdraws, but just as she’s about to, he tentatively puts his hands on her back. She grins into his shoulder and says softly, “It’s gorgeous. Thank you, darling.”

“You’re not supposed to receive it until the ceremony,” he whispers back, a clear attempt at breaking free of the heavily charged atmosphere and into a more comfortable territory of humorous banter. “I understand you might want to wear a traditional headdress, but we’ll think of some way to bring it in.”

Oh. Fuck. Right. The wedding dress. Now that she finds herself more comfortable around Percival and with this entire situation in general, she is less mournful about the lack of a traditional Byroden dress, but the little girl inside of her that wants to be closer to her mother still grieves.

She pulls herself out of the hug. “Well, seeing as how I haven’t found a dress yet, I think we can safely assume my attire will be understated -- Vax tells me he brought the rest of my clothing; we’ll figure something out. When exactly were you planning on us doing this?”

“In two days’ time?” Percival suggests and she nearly chokes. He holds up his hands in defence. “Think about it, please: it will just be you, me, Pike, and our choice of three witnesses. No party, no five course buffets… technically, we could be married in our dressing gowns.”

Vex doesn’t own a dressing gown, but she sees his point. “Alright… then what about after?”

He cocks his head to the side, clueless as a baby bird. “‘After’? What do you mean?”

“Married couples, particularly those in love, generally share a bedroom, dear.” For a moment, he just stares at her, unblinking, but she watches as color rises in his face, creating a nice color gradient going from pale white to sharp red on his throat. It’s hard not to laugh. Sexually repressed nobility, of course, she should’ve known. “Down, boy,” she adds with a smug wink, which earns her a roll of his eyes, “I just want to point out that so far we’ve been able to play conservative, but that won’t be possible after. We need to share a room.”

He rubs a hand down his face, mostly erasing the interesting color spectrum there, which is probably the intention. For a long while, he is silent. Vex thinks she can hear the ticking of the old grandfather clock she had Scanlan assemble earlier in the week, but it is all the way back in the dining hall.

“No.”

“What?” He cannot be serious. “Come on, Percy, you can’t be  _ that _ repressed. I won’t accost you in your sleep or anything.” His face is pulled into a strange grimace for just a second, but she doesn’t have time to analyze its exact character before it’s gone. Is it really that repulsive, the idea of having to sleep in the same bed as her, or even just the same room? As though he isn’t the one constantly stinking of smoke.

“It’s not that,” he insists, but she can sense that she hit  _ some _ nerve, “I just like having my  _ space _ .”

That is fair, she has to admit that. Sometimes, she needs her space, too. “Alright, look, I am  _ fully  _ open to suggestions that would include us fooling people into believing we’re sleeping with each other, but also include you getting your space.”

“Secret passageway,” he says, so fast he must have thought about it either for a while or for exactly no time at all, “leading from one bedroom to the other; we both enter the one, but one of us continues through the passageway to the next. We lie to the builders and servants and say it’s our panic room. With this castle’s history, it wouldn’t be very hard to believe.”

That is a decent idea. Actually, it is a pretty fantastic idea, as long as they can sell the rest of their love story. Vex purses her lips and nods slowly. “Alright, I think that has good potential. But that would be another thing that would need to be done in the castle, and, to tell you the truth, Percival, my plan was to focus on the city as soon as I officially had the powers of a Lady. Castle Whitestone may be your home, and now mine as well, but I can’t in good conscience let the people go unanswered any longer, just because I am doing over the castle.”

He nods enthusiastically.. “Of course -- if you weren’t insisting already, I’d be strongly encouraging you. Like I said, I am perfectly aware of the state of the city, and I am more than excited to see it returned to its former glory.”

It is surreal to hear him talk so openly about his own neglect. Before, Vex was willing to believe that Percival was some nutcase hermit who was incapable of going outside, but having now seen him in Castle Whitestone, even experienced him interacting with other people without experiencing a minor meltdown, she wonders what on Earth kept him tied to the castle and unable to help his people? Did he just not care enough? Were they not important enough to sacrifice his own comfort for theirs? Perhaps he did de-prioritize the city despite a technical capability to change the situation, but Vex has a feeling it does not have to do with apathy. But if he is capable of social interaction and of going outside (it’s nice to have it confirmed that he is not a vampire), what was holding him back? And is it still, or has she broken something, with her arrival here?

Before she can talk herself out of it, she says, “Percy, can I ask you a question?”

His eyes flutter from her face to the plethora of books surrounding them, never resting on one for very long. “Don’t call me that.”

She frowns. “What?” 

He sighs heavily. He does that a lot, she’s noticed, especially when confronted with something he would rather ignore, whether it be annoying, enraging, or saddening. It’s one of his nervous tics. Another is running his hand through his hair, but he’s not doing that right now. While she waits for him to speak, she realizes that although their embrace has long since ended, they have yet to separate more than a few feet, and this close, she can see the lines in his face very clearly, drawn as they are in the snow of his skin. Belatedly, she realizes that her head is tilted back slightly to look up at his face.

“Percy,” he clarifies, his eyes finally settling directly down at her, making a thrill of electricity shoot up her spine. “My family called me that.” There is not an ounce of anger in him, just grief.

Grief, it’s like a secondary coat to him. He wraps himself in it every morning and refuses to undo the buttons to let a warm breeze in. Vex can relate. When her mother passed, all she wanted to do was run away into the forest and never speak to another humanoid again, save her brother. In fact, that was what she did for a few weeks, until Syldor came and got her, carrying her back home while she kicked and screamed. Grief is easy to get lost in, and it is the perfect hiding place for somebody uncomfortable with the world. But it should not rule lives.

There is not much Vex can do to relieve him of that mourning apparel until he decides it is time to move on, not on her own. It would not be  _ fair  _ for her to have to put aside her own life to comfort a man, no matter how grief-stricken. She hopes the addition of people to the castle will help him heal. Pike, Grog, Keyleth, Scanlan, even Laina and the guards. Together, they can hopefully help him change. But it is not a task any of them should take on alone nor consciously, they should simply exist and allow him to take part if he desires change.

Vex thinks he does, though. If he didn’t, would he have asked her to marry him?

“Well, ‘Percival’ is a bit of a mouthful, dear,” she finally says, “but alright.”

“I’m sorry, I--”

She waves him off. “I’m just joking, it really is alright. May I ask you that question, though?” There is anxiety in his eyes but he nods anyway. “Thank you. I was just thinking… when I first came here, you seemed almost…  _ bound _ to this castle somehow. It was like you couldn’t leave or something, perhaps not speak with people or step into the sunlight? But I’ve seen you talk with the others and be outside, so… what is it that keeps you here? Why go through the trouble of marrying me, when you could seemingly handle all of this yourself?”

The more she speaks, the more she can see him pull inside of himself, but she pushes on, determined to have her curiosity satisfied. Eventually, he adds to the space between them by staggering a few steps back -- until his back hits one of the bookcases and keeps him trapped with her, still uncomfortably close in a dusty, stuffed room.

“I… it might have been a dream, I don’t know. I  _ thought _ it was a dream. It might have been. I might be losing my mind, if it’s not already gone. I don’t know. I don’t know anything, really. It’s been… inactive for so long, I don’t know, it could just have been a one-time, two-time thing. It could be done with me. But I don’t think so. I  _ really  _ don’t think so.”

It is not exactly a secret that Percival can be cryptic, but this must be the strangest series of sentences he has ever uttered in Vex’s presence. She cannot find any type of meaning in them. It feels like she should be studying a code index. “What are you  _ talking  _ about, Percival? What is ‘it’?”

Panic, real, true panic, flashes in his eyes. His hands shake as he holds them up in defence. “I can’t talk about this, I… I have to go,” and with that, he turns around and stumbles towards the exit, leaving Vex to stare, completely baffled, after his staggering form.

To the dusty library, she whispers, “Did all of that just happen?”

When she gets back to her room, Vax is waiting for her on a spare mattress on the floor, legs crossed and face bruised like a peach. Nevertheless, he has the gall to look up at her as though she is the misbehaving child breaking her curfew. “How’s Freddie?” he asks, voice dry and full of disdain.

Vex grimaces and closes the door behind her, hands fiddling with the hair clasp she forgot to give Percival back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All the more reason why we should,” Vax presses while she readies herself for bed. “If anything is wrong, I can get us out of here in less than an hour. No one will ever know where we went. But you have to tell me, Vex’ahlia, otherwise I won’t know to prepare everything.”

“I don’t want to leave.” She surprises herself with how true that statement feels. “I can do good things here, for the people of Whitestone, for Syngorn, for you and myself… and for all that Percival may be troubled and awkward, I don’t think he  _ means _ to be difficult. He has the right intentions.”

“Oh, yes, I’m  _ sure _ he only has lily-white reasons for marrying a beautiful woman.”

Vex sighs and finally sinks into her bed, legs and arms crossed. Her unbound hair falls around her like a veil, almost reaching her hip. “He has not tried anything even once and has made it  _ very _ clear he does not want to share a marriage bed, nor even a bedroom. I highly doubt I have anything to fear from him,  _ brother _ . How did your face end up like that anyway?”

Immediately, Vax’s hand goes for his face; he’s apparently forgotten himself. “Your carpenter’s got a fuckin’ nasty right hook,” he grumbles, and winces when he accidentally prods a bruise too aggressively. She rolls her eyes and leans over to touch the top of his head and pour a Cure Wounds into him, at once removing every trace of the fight from his face. What she gets in return is Vax springing up into her bed and gleefully driving his fist into her hair.

After a minute of half-hearted play-fighting, he lets go and nudges her shoulder with his own. “You’re avoiding the issue,” he says, voice low with that dreaded seriousness. “Are you happy? Is this really the man you want to marry?”

“I think I  _ can _ be happy here.” Marrying Percival is just a single part of her situation: she will be able to keep busy with a meaningful occupation of looking after Whitestone, she will have the opportunity to explore the Parchwood Forest (eventually), she will even be free to pursue any romantic entanglements she wants, as long as they stay out of the public eye… and Percival really isn’t so bad, as weird as he acted upon his departure. “But if I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’d better be,” Vax huffs and reaches out to braid her hair.

She happily submits to his care, head falling into his hands like an eager cat.


End file.
